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I’m awakened by my phone ringing and a motor humming outside the car – an obnoxious sound at four in the morning. By the time I locate my phone, which has slipped under the seat, I miss the call. I pull back the newspaper taped to the windscreen – my attempt at insulation – and a guy with straight hair, not dreads, drives a street sweeper along the gutter. Sucks that it’s not Marv.
My phone beeps. A missed call from Dad. And a text.
Meet me outside the police station!
I turn the Mitsi key and notice the petrol gauge on E. I risk running out of gas, or I cycle. I start the engine; I dunno what state he’s in, and he’s the worst person to dub on the back of a bike, flopping around side to side. I start the Mitsi and speed through town; the front entrance of the police station is lit, but Dad’s not here. I park out the front and wait, and then wait some more. I text him. He texted me earlier, so he’s not dead; it’s when Dad goes silent you know he’s in trouble.
Where are you?
After an hour, I go into the police reception and press the buzzer. It sends a harsh zzzzz out back.
A policeman strolls up.
“I’ve come to pick up Gary Marshall.”
He taps at his computer. “No one’s come in by that name.”
I nearly ask him to double-check, but Dad’s a manipulative waste of space, and this is not the first time he’s used a message like pick me up outside the [insert place that will get my attention] because his arse is too lazy to walk the three blocks back to the Mitsi.
I text him again: Better come soon, or you’re walking. I know I’m full of it; I wouldn’t ditch him, coz what if he genuinely does need help? The familiar tightness in my throat returns, sitting heavy. He’s pissing me around, and I’m the idiot wasting my time running around after him, waiting for my life to start. He waits for nothing and no one, like he’s got his shit sorted, happy just existing. And every time I’m sucked in by his shit, I know I can’t do this anymore, that there’s got to be more than this – but here I am, again.
There’s a bomb I’ve been dreaming of painting on the police station – a risky and stupid move, since there’s an actual person who’s paid to watch their security cameras twenty-four seven.
I wait another half an hour, till I can’t sit like a loser being had anymore.
The police station is the only place in town where you can do all the wrong things and they’ll take you into a tropical cell and feed you. I sneak around the back to the double doors of the service entry. Two security cameras point to each door. Using a chair from the courtyard, I spray the camera faces black, careful to not get my face in view.
The textured lumpy concrete wall is the worst to bomb. As I lay out my sprays, a police siren wails, and I automatically roll my eyes; it better have nothing to do with Dad. On the double doors, I spray in black the outline of an open door, an inmate sneaking a line of homeless people inside, and from the inmate’s mouth a speech bubble: Welcome, it’s warm, and there’s free food. In the bottom corner, Xavier. SOFA wants portfolios that reflect art in society – that’s my jam. I take a photo, push all my spray into my bag and head around the front.
Dad sits on the footpath, his back against a power box, a beer in hand.
“Howsy, son.”
“You weren’t inside the station, were you?”
Dad shakes his head as he takes a sip of his beer.
“You know I got better things to do than be your taxi. I was legit worried.”
He’s wasted, his face weathered, eyes drooping, his clothes hanging off his frame more than they used to. He opens his bag and shows me the bottles of rum. It reminds me of the hospital, the worst night of my life, the nurse giving me a box with everything from the car that survived the crash, the same brand of rum Dad is drinking now. How could glass bottles make it unbroken, not a chip, and yet Mum died?
“No – you can walk.” I’m surprised how calm I say it, numb; he’s literally sucked all the life from me.
He tries to stand, swaying as he rises. I catch him before he falls, and I’m reminded why I’m here, that catching him when he falls is the promise I made to Mum, and now I’m pissed at her, too.
“Dons bees mad, son, jush a lit-tle party, promset, it’ll be the last.”
Who’s he kidding? Does he think this is my first time? Never trust Dad’s promise – he’s full of it, the words have no meaning.
I walk Dad to the Mitsi, where we sit and wait till it’s time to drive to school. I give him the silent treatment, but he doesn’t get the hint. The more he sips from that rum bottle and hammers on about his parties and friends, the things that mean something to him, the closer I get to yelling, Shut the hell up, get out of my life! and legit shoving him out the door. I could tell him about the SOFA comp and Libby, but I’m not that stupid; it’d be wasted words.
At each intersection, on the way to school, I’m worried the car will stall and not start again, hungry for more gas. Dad goes on about how he’ll pick up gas on his way back to town. I zone out; he’s full of crap. A static wall of empty promises makes for irritating background noise. He won’t get gas; we’ll push the car to the nearest petrol station that we haven’t been banned from, fill up the tank and drive off without paying, like we always do. He mutters something about it being my turn, that he did it last time. I can’t even. He’s not followed through once.
Outside the school entrance, I open the boot. “I know you get the family assistance payment today; put gas in the f-ing car.” And I slam the boot.
I bet he drives straight to his friends via the booze shop.
I pop my head into the passenger window; Dad’s hands shake as he grips the steering wheel. What happens when his tank is on E?
“Get gas, and while ya at it, food.”
He avoids eye contact, looks in the opposite direction. “Sure, sure.”
“Don’t forget dog food.”
But he drives off mid-sentence.
I lock my bike at the back of the teachers’ car park. I keep my focus on the ground – after what Libby and Luka now know about me, I’m paranoid everyone knows, that everyone is looking, talking about me. As a pack of guys ride up, one slides his bike next to mine.
“I’ve seen your bike around. Sweet paint job.”
“Thanks.” My focus is firmly on clicking my bike lock, and panic sets in; what does he know? He’s parked his bike next to mine for months, and we’ve never spoken a word. I feel like the spotlight is on me in a crowded arena as the group check out my bike. It’s all too much, I could leave and never come back, but I need to sort this ball deal with Libby.
A brown station wagon drives up, Libby in the front. I fumble with the lock, biding my time, digging for the courage to ask about the ball ultimatum in a way that doesn’t come across as desperate or that it’s a big deal. Irritation sweeps through me; what does she care if everybody on the planet knows I’m Xavier, the homeless street artist? Why would she nark about my work on the back of her gallery? Any more criminal convictions could ruin what little hope I have of getting into SOFA, while her life is perfectly mapped out with multiple good options.
The front passenger door opens, and a wall of arguing explodes out.
“I can’t believe you’re leaving us for her!” Libby’s voice is sharp, with none of its usual easy-going tone. “Leave, then.” Her voice quivers as if on the edge of tears, that point where the lump in your throat is so fat you’ve gotta let the tears out to release the pressure. That, or implode.
Libby flies out of the car and slams the door, her face red, tears streaming. I force myself to focus on rolling the numbers on my bike lock, fight the urge to ask if she’s okay. It’s a stupid question; clearly, she’s not. What can I say that doesn’t sound (1) creepy and (2) states the obvious? Libby glances my way, the usual Libby vibe gone, her face blank. I smile and then regret it. Who smiles at someone when they’re sad? Doesn’t that make it worse?
She opens the boot, lifts out her shoulder bag and a sleeping bag, and sets them on the ground.
“Good luck with your new life,” she yells into the car, then slams the boot shut.
Her dad pops his head out the driver’s window. “Libs, we’ll talk later!”
“No! We won’t.”
Selfish me sets aside the ball ultimatum; for now, that girl looks broken. I shouldn’t help her, I shouldn’t care, and I don’t. But you just can’t kick someone when they’re already down on the ground.
Why is her dad not helping with her stuff, or caring? She’s crying; looks like she’s got a monumental pain in the arse as a dad, too.
She stuffs three takeaway bags stamped Red Gallery Café into her backpack and swings it over her shoulder, picks up a pile of books and sleeping bag, and steadies herself before the line of stairs to the administration block.
Her dad drives off, just like that, no checking to see if she’s okay. I feel my own eye roll, and for a split second she looks up at me, and I swear we’re talking without words, that she knows I understand how soul-crushing a useless dad can be.
She turns away, and it’s like her hollow vibe is contagious. I feel for her; I know what it’s like when you realise the person who should be there for you has let you down so often you go numb, and give up trying to let them in.
Libby walks the steps towards the school’s entrance. The food slips out of the takeaway bags, and as she leans down to pick it up, the contents of her bag spill down the steps. She collapses in a heap, her gear everywhere, and wipes tears with the sleeve of her school jersey.
I put the keys to my bike lock in the front pocket of my bag. I’m stalling, not sure what I’m waiting for. Would she want help from me? A group of students step over her stuff, and walk up the steps like she’s invisible.
I run over, pick up the food, and pack as much as possible into the takeaway bags.
Libby looks up at me. “Sorry, I’m in your way.”
“You’re not.”
She looks at me with the fake smile of someone desperate to keep it together to save what little dignity they have left; her downcast eyes say it all: she’s broken.
As we lean down at the same time to collect the books, our heads crash together, and I narrowly miss being stabbed by the red graphite pencil jammed through the middle of her bun.
I try to search her eyes, but they’re focused on the ground. “You okay?”
“Sorry,” she says again, rubbing her forehead.
“I’ll carry these for you.” I gather her things, load them into her school bag and sling the bag over my shoulder. I hold out my hand. “Help up?”
I hoist her to her feet. She lets go of my hand, and we stand there facing each other, her hair wild and unruly. She looks past me as a stream of seniors pass. Two look back, and one whispers to the other.
I’m snapped back to reality, to the fear of what she knows or has said. Remembering that I should keep my distance from her, from everyone. I don’t mean to blurt it out; it’s inappropriate timing, but the words fall out: “Mind not telling anyone about seeing me at the library or that I’m ...” I look around to make sure no one is in earshot. “Xavier?”
Her focus changes, becomes more serious. “Um, sure ... I was going to talk to you about that. You have no reason to be embarrassed about being homeless.”
I cast my eyes down; the ground is about to give way, and I’m about to freefall. And there’s that word again that I want to blow to smithereens. She’s confirmed my worst fears – she one hundred percent knows I’m Xavier and that I’m homeless.
My shoulders tense, I still can’t look at her. I focus on Katie, who’s heading this way. “I’m not embarrassed.” I’m full of shit. “No one can know.” My words sound harsh; it’s not how I intended them to come out, I’m just mad as hell at myself for being stupid enough to get caught.
Katie reaches us. “Tense conversation, much?” Her face is caked in makeup, like she’s about to hit the pubs.
“Take this.” I pass Katie Libby’s bag, and they walk the steps up the main entrance. I’m left without an answer, or confirmation that she won’t tell anyone. The conversation is unfinished, the ball ultimatum still up in the air. Is our deal still on? I need to know – if I do the ball art, will she keep quiet?
I head into the administration block and walk towards art. The bell rings; I hang behind a mass of seniors deep in gossip, paranoid my homelessness is one of their topics.
Mr Campbell and Miss Reed push through the staff room door into the corridor and walk in the same direction. I duck behind a guy carrying a giant canvas, who I recognise from art class.
“See you at mine later,” Mr Campbell says to Miss Reed.
“Look forward to it.” Miss Reed disappears into her office, closing the door. As much as guidance counsellors think they’re always the first to know school gossip, they’re not. The whole school will know I’m homeless once Miss Reed finds out about it; I’ll do what I’m good at and avoid her. The last thing I need is her contacting child services and them getting all up in my grill and causing drama.
From behind, I hear the boom of Luka’s voice and his groupies. A junior opens her locker, and I legit contemplate jumping in, but Luka catches up, matches my pace. I brace myself for a snarky comment about being homeless or eating free food; I’m tempted to ask him not to say anything about the food truck, but he’s the kind of guy who, if you asked him not to do something, would do the opposite and mock you relentlessly – a joke to him, not to anyone else. I keep my mouth shut.
Luka, low key and casual, not his standard vibe: “How was your weekend?”
Can’t he ignore me like he usually does? I glance at him briefly; what’s he getting at? I’ve seen his other side with his brother Sam, but his friends are here, and he almost sounds genuine.
We reach the art-room door, and his buddies carry on down the hall. He pushes me to the side of the corridor, and he almost looks awkward, nervous. “Um, so, your friend Jack.”
He better tread carefully – Jack’s like a brother to me.
“Err, yeah – what about him?”
“My brother Sam kinda knows him, and he wants to learn how to make a comic book like Jack did. There was a community class or something.” He pauses and looks down either side of the hall to check no one is in earshot. “For special ed kids – think you could get me the contact deets for whoever runs it?”
I’m tempted to bargain with him. If I get the number, he tells no one about the food truck situation. But I don’t trust him; I’ve seen too much of his other side to know he’s loyal to no one, especially his word. Except for his brother, that is. And it feels wrong to use Jack and Sam as a bargaining tool.
“Yeah, I can get it.” I pull out my phone, search under H and hold up the number; he takes a picture.
“And don’t get any ideas about Libby. I see the way you look at her. Anyways, you two ... are too different.”
And there’s the Luka I know. His tone is condescending, like he thinks I’m too stupid to get the subtext of his text; the way he gazes down at me with his stupid smirk says it all – that he doesn’t just think he’s better than me, he reckons he knows it.
My neck stiffens, my shoulders tense; if he mentioned the word homeless, I’d push him into the lockers. But if I touched him, the spotlight would be on us and he’d yell what he knows to everyone.
“What? No. I don’t look at her ... not like that.” I’m tripping over my words, which only makes me sound guilty. I mean, she’s nice, but mostly irritating, and I guess she’s not hard to look at – I’m not blind. And she’s super chill with Jack. My mind stumbles. The ball ultimatum thing, she’s irritating. Irritating. I say it to myself twice to make sure it was clear the first time.
“Well, good.” And Luka beams a fake-as-hell, I’m-better-than-you smile.
I wait for Luka to go into class and hide in the hall.
I’d temporarily forgotten that the graph tab I stole from Mr Campbell is in my backpack, and that, combined with worry I’m the new topic of gossip, has meant my legs have stalled. They refuse to go in – until I hear Miss Reed patrolling late students into class, and I open the art-room door.
Mr Campbell is at the whiteboard, back turned. I grip the shoulder straps of my bag, his graph tab stashed inside, my focus firmly on my seat at the back by the window.
“Dylan, I’d like to speak to you after class, please.”
He’s turned to face me; I don’t shift my focus. “Sure.” I continue to my seat. I figure if he knew I took it, he’d have yanked me into the principal’s office by now.
I open my bag, allowing just enough room to slide out my artwork book, and place my bag directly under my seat. Mr Campbell turns again from the whiteboard, his focus directed at me; my chest muscles tighten, threatening to cut off my air as I wait for the inevitable, for him to call me out. I divert my attention out the window. Katie and Libby are walking through the courtyard towards class. I shouldn’t have come to school; I’m surrounded.
Katie waves; I wave back before realising she’s waving at Mr Campbell, who opens the back door of art class.
“Hiiiii, Mr Campbell,” Katie says, as Libby follows her into the room.
My stomach flips, the dodgy-burrito-grind kind.
Mr Campbell smiles like he means it.
Luka picks up the bag that belongs to the guy next to him. “Mind moving? Libby’s sitting here.”
“Settle down, girlfriend,” Katie says. “There’s seats up the back.”
Luka pulls an imaginary dagger from his chest. “Heart ... broken.” He gasps for breath. Maybe he should rethink med school for acting, though I’m not sure his ego could cope when he discovers he sucks at something.
Libby sits next to me; my stomach is engulfed with irritated butterflies. I’m unsure where to look. I owe her an apology for snapping earlier, and I need to know if the ball ultimatum is still on. Act cool, act cool. Pretty sure actual cool guys don’t say that, but before I gather the courage to force the words out, Libby leans close and whispers, eyes focused on Mr Campbell, “Thanks, for before, for helping.” Her jacket brushes my arm, sending static tingles through my body. I can’t remember the last time I was that close to anyone, let alone a girl.
Before my courage balloon deflates, I force the words out, in a whisper. “Sorry for before, about the ball ...”
Mr Campbell clears his throat. “Gossip on your own time.”
He launches into instructions for compiling the end-of-year portfolio and reminds us how strict the entry requirements are for SOFA.
I switch between not knowing how to sit normally and smelling brief whiffs of perfume. I glance at Libby, her hair out of her bun and cascading down her shoulders; it’s big and unruly – imperfect. Her fringe is held with one gold hairpin. Her eyes are no longer rimmed red, but perfectly green.
She glances my way. “Thank you again, for earlier. I’m really embarrassed – sorry you had to see that,” she whispers.
“No worries.” Heat engulfs my face.
Her attention diverts to the front of class when Mr Campbell begins a lecture on Frida Kahlo, a Mexican artist known for self-portraits and paintings of nature. How she was deemed an oddity then, but is revered today. I just wish artists didn’t have to die to get the revered bit. Frida explored questions of identity, class, and race. In this class, I’m the oddity.
We’re given a Frida Kahlo painting to decode. My mind is fuzzy, preoccupied. I want to ask Libby what the deal is with the ball ultimatum, if our deal is still on – if I do the art, she won’t tell anyone what she knows about me. But Libby and Katie are busy chatting, something about making plans for their combined birthday party, and there are no quiet spots for me to ask the question.
Frida incorporated reality with surrealistic elements, and all I can think about is how it’s surreal sitting here right now, next to Libby, not knowing what Mr Campbell knows.
Mr Campbell looks over our way. “Dylan,” he booms. My heart rocks a drumbeat. “Would you stop with the whispering up the back?”
Libby and Katie glance at each other and go silent.
I can barely hear him with the drumming that’s now taking over my ear space. “Sorry, sir.” And he goes back to his lecture.
Libby mouths, Thank you.
I pretend I’m focused on what Mr Campbell is saying. For a head girl, she’s surprisingly un-head-girl-like. I’m happy to take the rap for their whispering; it’s better than how I thought the conversation would go.
Libby: “He’s a homeless vandal.”
Mr Campbell: “He stole my graph tab.”
Katie: “I saw him steal it.”
Luka: “He’s a nothing.”
We’re given time to work on our portfolios, and I transition to the art computer in the resource room off the side of art class. It’s for student use, and because everyone else has their own devices, I’ve always used the school computer in there. No one usually comes in, which I prefer. I stay there till the bell goes. I figure too many people know too much about me, and it’s best to lay low.
When class ends, I gap it out the side door onto the courtyard.
“Dylan,” Mr Campbell says, following me.
My heart drums.
“You were in my shop this weekend.” He pauses, waits for a response.
“Err, yes.” I can’t deny he saw me; I gave him my last six dollars – well, technically, I gave it to Katie.
“My shop graphics tablet has gone missing. I don’t suppose you saw it when you were in?” He glares at me. Gossiping students sit at the bench seats behind. Seagulls gather. I turn, pretending to be distracted by them, mostly to give me a few seconds to think of a response.
A gull charges at another gull, chasing a piece of fallen sandwich.
“No, didn’t see it,” I say, looking at Mr Campbell directly. I tighten my grip around the handles on my bag. The bag that has his graph tab inside.
“Right.” Mr Campbell pats his beard with one hand, glances at my bag, and walks off in the other direction.
My stomach drops. If they look at the security camera footage, I’m screwed.
At lunch, I avoid the courtyard, where gossipers hang, and instead cut through the back fence, behind towering trees that separate the school from the beach track.
My feet hit the sand, and a surge of relief pours over me. I’m alone. Black marshmallow clouds crowd the sky. I reach the beach car park. Continuing, I pass the toilet block – black, with a surfer riding a wave painted on the back. The peeling paint shows layers of yellow, blue, green and brown. I take the path behind the toilet block, and veer off down a track hidden behind a bush, pushing my way through the plants. The path rises steeply up a dune to a picnic table and a not-too-shabby view. The tide is way out; an old couple walk their black Lab, navy umbrella up, turquoise scarves wound around their necks. The clouds swirl and roll, pushed by a cool breeze.
Arguing voices rise from below, and I peek down the sand dune through the bushes and see Libby and her dad. They’re standing on the shore and looking out to sea. I lean back into the bush.
“How could you cheat on Mum?” Libby yells, facing her dad, her voice shaky.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen. Your mum and me ... we’ve been struggling for a long time.” He digs his hands in his jacket pockets and pushes the sand with one foot.
“So now what?” Libby pulls a tissue from her jacket pocket and wipes her eyes.
“Annie and I are going to move in together for a fresh start.”
“I can’t believe you’d do this to Mum, and me,” Libby yells, and huffs up the track towards me. Her dad follows and reaches out to grab her arm.
“Leave. Me. Alone.” She pushes him away. He seems to get the hint but still trails behind her.
Libby passes me with only a bush between us. I’m frozen but wait a few minutes until the misty rain turns to masses of fat raindrops that speckle the sand, and then I run down the track into the car park.
An elderly guy opens his car. His black Lab jumps in. The car pulls out of the car park, revealing the Red Gallery Café van parked next to it. Libby’s dad sits in the front. No Libby. The rain hammers down. I run around to the back of the sheltered toilet block and find Libby sitting against the wall, arms wrapped around her knees, earphones in, staring out to sea. She jumps when she sees me.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to give you a fright.”
She takes the earphones out, and a depressing R&B song blares from her earphones.
“It’s okay.” Her eyes are puffy and red, crumpled tissue in her hand.
I turn to walk away and give her some space.
“Dylan. Do you have a light?”
When I turn back, she’s holding up a pack of smokes. The black wall behind her makes her pink-blonde hair and green eyes pop. She’s fiercely beautiful.
I didn’t pick her as the smoking type, but shitty situations make people do dumb stuff.
“Light?” she repeats.
“Yip!” I rest my bag on the ground and search for the lighter, careful not to clang the spray cans together – or let the graph tab be seen. Libby opens the packet of smokes and slides one into her mouth. I flick the lighter, and the flame rises. She leans in and takes a breath, igniting the cigarette; she coughs, waving the smoke away from her face.
“Want one?” She offers me the packet; there’s no beaming smile, just sad eyes.
“Sure.” I take a smoke and light it, inhale a deep drag and blow a stream of smoke into the rain.
Libby pats the ground, ushering me to sit next to her. We sit side by side, a spray-can length apart, and watch the black clouds swirl. Rain hammers, flows off the roof in mini waterfalls. I blow another stream of smoke into the sky. I’m not sure where to look, what to say. We’re alone. For a while we sit in silence, listening to the rain. She draws a short drag on her cigarette; smoke floats out her mouth. She coughs, waves the smoke from her face.
“You know your dad is parked behind us, right?” I say, taking another drag and blowing the smoke towards a bunch of parked cars.
“Yip!” she says, her eyes filled with tears. “My dad’s an idiot.”
Turns out idiot dads are universal.
She hugs her knees into her chest, rubbing the goosebumps on her arms, staring out towards the ocean. There’s probably a lump in her throat the size of Africa. If I was her, I’d want to be alone, to swallow the loss of having a dad who reeks of disappointment.
I take my hoody off.
“Here,” I say, handing her my top. She holds out her smoke; her fingers glide over mine during the transfer. Electricity sparks through me, every cell in my body lit up like fireworks.
“Thanks. You’re sweet.” She slips on my hoody; it suits her, the green the same colour as her eyes.
I pass back her smoke.
She takes a big drag and coughs, which turns into a gasped wheeze.
“You okay? Do I need to pat your back?” I try not to laugh.
“First time smoking. Is it that obvious?” Her smirk turns to a laugh. I did that; I made her feel better. Not gonna lie, it feels good.
“They’re shit for your health anyway,” I say, laughing. I butt out my cigarette on the ground and hold out my hand to take Libby’s. She stubs it out and drops it in my hand. I stick them in the rubbish bin and sit back down in the exact same spot.
The rain hammers down on the roof. A car pulls up in the car park behind us and parks in the furthest corner, half-hidden by a tree and thick bush.
Libby touches my arm, freeing the butterflies, and points. “Isn’t that Mr Campbell’s car? Jeepers! He’s going to suck her face off,” she says as the two people in the car get it on. The rain’s almost torrential now so it’s hard to see, but there are two people kissing, and it does look like Mr Campbell’s white station wagon. Though minus roof racks to carry his surfboard, which I assumed he’d have.
Libby laughs. “He’s giving her mouth to mouth. It’ll be Miss Reed with him. Gross – teachers making out.”
The man in the car looks in the rear-vision mirror, ducks down out of view. I catch a glimpse of dark hair and crane my neck to get a better look, but it’s hard to see through foggy windows. I really wouldn’t have picked Miss Reed and Mr Campbell as the types to ditch school to make out at the beach, so close to school.
Libby’s hand slaps my leg. “Holy shit. Mr Campbell and Miss Reed are freaky,” she says, moving her head from side to side to get a better look, which cracks me up.
Miss Reed gets out of the car and places a bag in the rubbish bin ... but it’s not Miss Reed. It’s Katie. She gets back in the car.
Libby gasps and a violent shiver rocks her body. “Is that Katie?” Her voice is high, serious; her hand flies over her mouth. She leans forward, grabs her phone from her bag and snaps pics as lightning strikes, and a garbage truck pulls up, blocking our view. By the time the guy has collected the three rubbish bins in the car park, stuck each one individually on the hoist and tipped the contents in the back, Mr Campbell’s car of horrors has left. I knew Mr Campbell could be a douche, but this is low, way low.
“Oh my god.” Libby repeats it till I lose count.
Miss Reed has always been so good to me. A nervous knot twists in my chest; sadness for Miss Reed and Katie. “This can’t end well for Katie,” I say, and both of us sit there, still staring at where the car was, then back at each other.
“This is dodgy – Mr Campbell can’t mess with Katie like that; it’s more than wrong.”
Libby shows me the blurry photo; it could be anyone in a blurry white car.
“Was that her? It was her, right?” She looks at me, her eyes pleading for an answer.
“I think so – it’s hard to tell.”
She slides her hands in my hoody pocket, pulling out a spray nozzle. “It’s gross; what the hell is she thinking?” Libby shivers again. “She falls deep for guys and thinks her life is over when they break it off with her.” She scrolls through her phone. “Jesus, I can’t decide if I should tell her I know.” Libby holds up her messenger conversation with Katie.
“We have to tell Mr Anderson; Mr Campbell is a ...” Libby searches for the word.
“Predator,” I say, and she nods in agreement.
What does she mean, we have to tell Mr Anderson? No one’s going to take anything I say seriously. It’s gotta be done to protect Katie, but selfish me knows going against the teacher responsible for passing me in art is not an intelligent thing to do. I’m more selfish – more like Dad – than I thought.
Miss Reed has so got the sweets for him, too. This is gonna break her. Going by the hardcore collection of romance books on her shelf, she’s a believer in the Prince Charming trope. What if Katie believes in it too?
I realise Libby’s staring at me, waiting for me to answer.
“We gotta do something; it’s the right thing to do,” I say, looking directly at Libby with all the pretend confidence I can muster.
Libby stands. “We better get back to school. Dad can give us a lift.” She waves at me to follow her towards her dad’s van. As I stand, I lift one handle of my bag, and the top flips open. Mr Campbell’s graph tab slides out; the sticker on the back reads PROPERTY OF MR CAMPBELL’S ART SUPPLIES.
Libby’s eyes go wide. “Is that Mr Campbell’s?”
I flick my eyes to the left. “The sticker is; the graphics pad is mine.” Lame – she’s too onto it to believe that.
“Oh, of course.”
I can’t look at her. Her tone says she believes me, but does she really? She watches me slide the graph tab back in the bag, and I manage to keep the spray cans from sliding out.
We run towards the white van, Libby a few steps ahead, dodging puddles. It’s the same van that dropped food off at the library. Libby slides the door open and climbs in. For a second, I hesitate; what’s her dad going to think about his daughter hanging out with me?
It starts to pour again, and raindrops bounce off the van. “Come in.” Libby pats the seat next to her.
“Can you please drop us back to school?”
“Sure.” Her dad looks me up and down.
I extend my hand. “Dylan. Nice to meet you, sir.”
He shakes my hand firmly, eyes red and glazed, like he’s got hay fever.
“Dan,” he says, focused on my hoody that Libby is wearing.
The van engine starts. Libby’s leg bumps mine as we go over a pothole. The window wipers go nuts; Dan leans forward, wipes fog from the inside of the window. At least the rain hammering on the roof drowns out the awkward silence.
Within a few minutes, Dan parks next to the bus shelter outside school.
“Thanks for the ride.” I slide the door open and run under the bus shelter, Libby right behind me, stepping around puddles.
“Thanks for the loan of your hoody,” Libby says. She pulls her arm out of one sleeve.
“Keep it till I see you next.”
“Awww, thanks so much.” She glides her arm back through the sleeve as the bell rings.
“What’s your number?” she asks. “I’ll text you; we can sort out a plan with Mr Anderson.”
As I read out my number, Libby types it into her phone.
Luka runs up to Libby, holds his umbrella above her head. “My lady.”
A few seconds later, my phone beeps, an unknown number. A message: This is Libby, thanks so much!
“Got it.”
“Yay.” Libby smiles, Luka glares.
I change the unknown number to Libby, not believing she gave it to me. And under D in her contacts will be my name; I don’t point out to Luka that D comes before L as far as contact lists go. A lame thought; it’s the only thing I’ve got over him.
“Get to class, you lot,” Libby’s dad shouts from the van window.
“I better get to bio, but I’ll see you in art tomorrow,” she says, turning to leave.
“Yeah. Sweet. Bye.” I walk up the steps towards the main building. I turn around to look at Libby.
Luka holds the science tower door open for her, and they disappear inside.
Inside I head to my locker; I pass Miss Reed’s office and the door is open. Bad mistake.
“Dylan.” She paces after me. “I need to see you – come with me.” Her tone is direct. She ushers me into her office and shuts the door. I stay standing, clutching the straps of my bag and hoping the busted zip isn’t revealing what’s concealed inside. I glance at her shelf of neatly organised romance books, and I want to blurt out the Mr Campbell thing, to protect her and Katie. I’m not sure what’s stopping me – the awkwardness of the situation, the potential of seeing someone that’s always been your rock break down?
“Mr Campbell’s laptop has been stolen from his shop.” I want to correct her – it was a graphics tablet – but I keep my mouth shut.
She sits in her comfy seat. “Sit.” She points to the couch with a billion cushions.
I take a seat. I can’t put my bag down; the top might flop open.
“Do you know anything about it?” She’s doing that thing where she knows I know. Out of everyone, Miss Reed has had my back the most. But since Mr Campbell and her got together, the lines of loyalty are different. She’s jibber-jabbering about the stolen computer, and all I can think about is what we saw. I want to yell, “He’s a predator, run!” Warn her he’s going to break her heart.
“Do you know anything?”
“No. Sorry.” I don’t feel guilty about lying to her face, like I usually do; there’s a way bigger lie she needs to know.
She smiles, drops her shoulders as she lets out her breath. She told me once she’d do anything she could to help me get into art school. But stealing Mr Campbell’s graphics tablet ... I’m not sure what repercussions that would have. And her loyalty would be to him, not me. Love is stupid and blind, and she might be too loved up to believe it if I told her, especially coming from me.
“Technically they’re school property and shouldn’t be off school grounds. Mr Campbell is incredibly stressed about it.”
“Has Mr Campbell been selling school computers?”
Miss Reed avoids the question.
“If you hear anything or come across any information that may help, let us know.”
I don’t answer. The bell rings for the end of school, and I grab my bag and rush out. Outside I pause, unsure where to go; I have no home or any clue where Dad is. But with so many bars on one side of Garden Square, I have a good idea of where to start looking.
I head into town and search for the Mitsi at the usual places. This would be so much easier if Dad answered his phone. After the sixth call, I give up. I don’t know what to do. As night falls, and after I’ve exhausted all the bars and possible places the Mitsi could be parked, I settle on sleeping in Central Garden Square. At least its perimeter is lit; it’s unsafe as hell, but compared to a stairwell or shop doorway, it’s the best place to sleep out of view and the least soul-crushing, embarrassing option.
Behind the toilet block, I push through tightly packed bushes, sit down on the ground and lean up against a tree. The soil’s too wet to sleep on. The crisp night air stings my cheeks and fingers. I pull my knees up to my chest and bury my face and hands in my lap. The hum of the city is deafening. A group of people pass me on a shortcut to the movie theatre; their laughter ricochets through me like I’m only the drawn outline of a body.