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I’m not sure how much I slept – dozed, maybe. Starlings chant an uncoordinated song as I watch the sunrise. Shades of pink, orange, and yellow glow behind the Red Gallery Café, the café and the apartment above lit. I check my phone. No message from Libby.
A message from Dad though: I’m parked up at Central Garden Square, don’t call I’m going to sleep.
When I find the Mitsi, Dad’s crashed out on the back seat. I push my bag into the footwell of the front seat and feel around for the graph tab, attach the charger and plug it into the car’s old-school cigarette lighter, laying my jacket over top. I wouldn’t put it past Dad to take it, sell it for more booze and weed.
The only bad thing about parking in Central Garden Square is when the sun rises or sets, the starlings congregate, and thousands of birds parked above the car means it gets bombed in sticky bird poo. The only poop-free parks are around the other side of the square, but they’re too close to Libby’s apartment.
I start the engine and edge backwards, blinded by the sun, when there’s a bang as something strikes the Mitsi. I glance over my shoulder and spot two guys in running shorts.
“Watch it, mate,” one of them yells, but as I brake, the car lurches forward and Dad falls off the back seat, knocking into the driver’s seat. I swing the door open and come face to face with Luka and an older version of Luka, looking like Hulk fitness dolls decked out in running singlets, shorts, and shoes. Their combined muscle mass outweighs our car.
Luka’s dad rubs his leg.
“Sorry, you alright?”
Luka’s dad snaps, “You should be sorry – you nearly ran us over. You could have broken my leg. I could sue for that, you know.”
It was a tap, at most. It seems Luka’s dad is a fan of playing it up.
Luka snickers. “No point suing, you’d get nothing out of them.” He continues to laugh. And he’s not wrong.
“There’s newspaper curtains on their car – or is it a house?”
Luka’s practically in hysterics. The cap has popped, and I’m rumbling, ready to blow. It’s bad enough he knows what he knows, but to mock me for it ...
I grit my jaw. I don’t want to draw any more attention our way, and his dad’s a lawyer so it would be a lost battle if I knocked Luka to the ground. And then I remember why he’s doing this, acting like such a monumental douche – it’s not about me being homeless. Libby gave me her number, and it’s killing him. And my rage turns to smugness; a grin sweeps my face. It feels pretty good – I could get used to this.
Dad wakes and pokes his head out the window. “What’s this all about?” He falls out of the car, zip flying low, unshaven, and smelling like a pub.
Luka shakes his head.
Luka’s dad starts jogging again. “You’re right, Luka,” he yells back. “Not worth it. Those kinds of cases are a waste of time in court.”
Luka looks Dad up and down, and it’s no longer mocking. It’s worse – pity followed up with disgust.
Luka steps towards me. I don’t budge.
He leans his face into mine. “Don’t think you’ll get anywhere with Libby; I know what you’re up to. You know she called you a homeless nothing.” And he jogs off in the direction of Libby’s apartment.
It’s not her style to call someone a nothing; anyway, she has zero interest in me. I get that girls like her don’t end up with homeless guys, but she’s not the nasty type.
I watch as Luka and his dad run towards Libby’s, and there she is, in running shorts, heading this way. And the air is sucked from me. The last thing I want her to see is our newspaper curtains. I can’t do it, see her pity face; she’s the kind of girl who would feel embarrassed for me, and I have enough of that to fill the universe.
“Dad, get in the car; we’re leaving NOW.” I start backing out while Dad dives into the passenger seat.
I take off and speed down Main Street.
“What was all that about, then?” Dad says, as he noses through my bag.
“Nothing, forget it.” I reach one arm and swipe Dad away from my bag. “Get out, nothing in there for you.”
“Argh, my boy, got any money for ya old man?”
“No,” I snap.
He shivers an all-over shake. “What’s got you all techy?”
“Where do I begin, Dad?” I snatch the bag off him and throw it on the back seat.
“Don’t you start with the lectures.” Dad leans back in the seat and resumes his unconscious position.
In the rear-vision mirror, I can just make out the three runners edging closer; I have no doubt Luka has filled Libby in with the details, including our newspaper curtains, and I’m sure he’s added dramatic effects to enhance the story to his liking.
At the end of Main Street, we sit and wait for the lights to change. From here onwards, the road turns into the state highway that follows the beach out of the city. I think I know of a place we can go – never an option before, but running, soul-sucking Hulks have a way of making me rethink our options. Dad’s not gonna like it, nor do I, but we are out of alternatives.
“Drop me in town,” Dad grumps.
“We are in town. I’m taking us somewhere we can park up permanently.”
He points to a liquor store. “What’s wrong with there?”
“Everything is wrong with there.”
I lean over Dad, open the glove box, take the wad of parking infringement notices and throw them on his lap.
“You wanna get the Mitsi towed again? Where would we sleep?”
The downside to parking under the safety of the lights around Garden Square – fines, and the ever-real risk of being towed. I fail to mention the shame if Libby witnesses the Mitsi house and its curtains.
Dad wouldn’t get it; he doesn’t even look at the stash of fines, the thousands of dollars we owe the city council. He winds down his window and lets the notices go; they get caught in the wind and float behind us.
“Problem solved.” His focus is on the last liquor store this side of town.
I turn onto the beach highway and glance at Dad; his eyes are closed now. Snores erupt.
We leave town behind. The beach is on our left, forest-covered hills on our right. A sign says Beachlands Cemetery and Sports Fields 200m next right.
I turn right down a road lined with oak trees. Behind are rows of graves dotted with flowers. I ignore Mum’s willow. I know it’s there; its exact spot. I don’t need reminding. I push thoughts of Mum out, suffocating them by wondering where in the car the tent is hiding.
We reach the end of the road – an abandoned sports field with overgrown grass, surrounded by the falling-down grandstand Dad would sit in when I was a kid and he’d come to watch me play footy. It was our thing, back when he was a normalish dad. Now, a tape covers the access to the stand, marking the space – with its rotten weathered wood, exposed nails, and peeling paint – as dangerous. A bit like Dad – the good parts of him lost in memories.
I park next to a white concrete building with Toilets written above a rusted iron gate. Behind, dense forest covers a steep hill. Before the new sports multiplex was built in town, we’d park in this spot on game days. The cheers from the sidelines still ring in my ears; I remember the BBQs in summer, Mum painting as many different varieties of plants as she could, the same tent. We didn’t have much, but we were together, and for the most part a typical family – Dad drunk, but in the jolly way people drink at Christmas, not in a soul-and life-sucking way, like now.
Dad continues to snore, his head flopped down. Bear is curled up on his lap, and Dad’s breath blows Bear’s fur.
I let Bear out and follow her into the bush behind the toilets. The sticks and leaves crunch and crack under my feet. Birds call and sparrows dance along with the leaf litter. Light streams have found a clear path through the trees. There’s a weight to being here; Mum would love this. I swallow hard, lock away the memories. It’s too much.
The wind bends the tops of the trees and drowns the hum of the highway. Through the branches, I can make out the beach. Between two towering pines is a space just flat enough for the tent.
I unload my bike and gear from the boot and carry the tent to the spot between the trees. I move some large rocks and sticks out of the way, then lay the tent out on a bed of yellow, gold, and brown leaves, hammering the pegs in with a stone.
I drape the waterproof fly over the tent and close the zip. I look over at the Mitsi in the car park next to the bare white wall of the toilet block, the sports ground beyond. The tent is home, at least for now, till I can figure something out. Back at the car, I grab the keys from the ignition and shove them in my pocket.
I grab my bag from the back seat and lay it down in front of the white toilet block wall.
I spray a black outline of a tent, surrounded by a picket fence, add streams of sunlight that reach the ground, overlapping the trees in greens, golds, and browns. At the top in the sky I spray, Home is not a place; it’s a feeling. It’s what Mum used to say. I’m not sure I’m feeling it, but it’s the safest spot we’ve got. I try to remember her voice, her smile; I like to think I can remember, but I know I’m filling in details. I spray Xavier – the name Mum gave me because of my mad obsession with X-Men as a kid – in the corner, and I take a picture using the graph tab.
As I pack away my spray, my phone beeps.
I near on drop my phone when I see Libby’s name.
I’ve tried everything. Katie refuses to admit we saw them at the beach. I emailed Mr Anderson. My plan: tell him what we saw, don’t name names.
Libby might be one of the smartest and nicest girls I’ve met, but this is a stupid plan. There’s no way Mr Anderson isn’t going to pursue this further and demand details, meet with Mr Campbell to get his side of things – and everybody’s, including mine.
I’m about to reply to tell her that’s a stupid idea, that there’s got to be a way to make Katie and Miss Reed see what they’ve got themselves into, when my phone beeps again.
Mr Anderson replied. Meeting after school today. Come with?
I type Noooooo, but my finger hovers over the send button. Fuck.
I delete the message and type: OK. C U then, and add a scared-face emoji
My stomach rolls. I lie in the tent, unable to focus. I want to go, do the right thing; I hate the thought of Miss Reed thinking she’s loved up only to find out her hopeless romantic story ends with more of a horror vibe. And Katie’s being taken advantage of, blinded. I’m torn; I wouldn’t usually question standing up for that kind of thing, just not when I stand to lose the only thing that could set me free, my one chance at getting into SOFA. When all this turns to a shit storm – and there’s no doubt it will – it’s me Mr Campbell will blame, not Libby. It will blow any chance I’ve got. But if I don’t turn up to that meeting, Libby will think the worst of me. And right now, despite her seeing all the bad stuff, she knows more of the real me than anyone else, even if she’s slightly annoying and that ball note situation is irritating as hell.
My phone beeps: Libby. And there’s a GIF of a dog dressed in a Superman costume strutting as he walks towards the camera. The caption: It’s gonna be fine, Superman is here. It’s hilarious.
I reply with a GIF of a dog driving a lawnmower. The title says What can go wrong, and we go back and forward with GIFs all day. Her last GIF is a girl falling on her bed, out cold asleep, and I’ll catch ya tomorrow, night you.
I lie back on the makeshift bed, cardboard underneath and a sleeping bag on top, and re-read her messages. I reply with a GIF, a puppy rolling itself in a blanket and the caption nighty night. I slide my phone in my pocket, and when it beeps, a smile sweeps across my ridiculous face; she’s got great timing. But it’s not her name and the happy buzz fades. Instead, it’s a message from the phone company: You’re out of data.
And that’s where it stops.
There isn’t a lot of sleep to be had in the cold tent; it’s the closest to freezing to death that I’ve come. And it doesn’t help that I can’t take my mind off wondering whether I should go to the meeting at school or not. Katie and Miss Reed need help; I should go. I re-read Libby’s messages; that gal loves her GIFs. I suppose they are pretty funny. No new messages or GIFs to laugh at though, not that I was expecting her to message again, but it was fun while it lasted.
I wind down the school drive and push my bike into the rack.
Inside, I spot Miss Reed near her office, and she sees me before I can escape.
“You remembered.” Her voice is upbeat. I swallow the guilt.
Dammit. I didn’t remember, it’s just bad timing. I’m reminded of all the nice stuff she’s done for me: she fought hard to get me into Mr Campbell’s art programme; it was she who I called when Mum died, and I barely knew her then. I’m overcome with a need to spit it out, rip the plaster off so she can get over Mr Campbell and move on and find an actual Prince Charming. The existence of such a man is debatable, but at least she wouldn’t be living a lie. For all the times she’s had my back, I owe it to her to have hers.
Miss Reed opens the door for me as I walk into her office. “I was just about to wait outside your first-period class.”
The only times she does that is when she’s digging for information, usually about Dad’s lack of parenting skills. But something’s got me thinking that today’s meeting has nothing to do with Dad.
I make room on her couch, push a thousand plush cushions to one side and sit on the edge, my leg jiggling. Mr Campbell’s graphics tablet is still in my bag.
Miss Reed sits opposite me. On top of her desk is a wedding magazine and box labelled Student Prizes filled with candy and a stack of mobile-phone top-up cards.
And then I see it, on Miss Reed’s finger – a rock the size of Texas. And I want to yell, Mr Campbell is getting it on with a student! The words are right there, but they won’t budge. It’s as if I’ve forgotten how to speak.
Miss Reed peers at me; I glance at the ring. What an a-hole. And for the first time, I know what it feels like to pity someone other than Dad.
“Yes, Mr Campbell proposed a few days ago.” She smiles like actual sunbeams. She believes he’s great.
“Don’t do it,” I whisper. It’s all I can force out.
And then she turns all condescending. “I know your family has had their ups and downs with relationships, but ...”
And then her mood shifts. Mine too. Even if I told her, she’s too loved up to believe me.
She shakes her head. “But that’s not why you’re here.” She leans in closer, and says in a whisper, “As you know, Mr Campbell’s laptop got stolen from his shop. I wanted to check in to see if you know anything about it now?”
My heart shifts up a beat. And I realise that at this moment, Miss Reed’s loyalty to Mr Campbell is stronger than ever before. Nothing I say will convince her otherwise. When shit goes down at the meeting with Mr Anderson, she’ll have Mr Campbell’s back, not mine. I’ve officially lost my only cheerleader. I regret all the times I said I’d show up to meet her and didn’t, those times I lied to her face. How can I expect her to be loyal to me, to believe anything I say, when I’ve never come through for her?
“No, I don’t know anything.”
She knows me well enough to know I’m lying. I can’t look at her, and my eyes get stuck on the fat diamond on her finger.
“I’d like to give the person a chance to return it, make it right before Mr Campbell takes it any further and the police get involved.” She stares at me intently; we both know they’re not going to the police – Mr Campbell was selling school computers to make some cash. She knows it, I know it, and I’m not loving that she’s threatening police; it’s low. I didn’t think she had it in her.
“Cool,” I say, my attention focused on the phone cards behind her. I can’t give up the graph tab; I just can’t. And now I’m convinced they won’t involve the police because it will catch out Mr Campbell and he could lose his job, his shop. The graph tab is safe in my bag.
“Mr Campbell told me you’ve shown an interest in the SOFA comp.”
My shoulders tense; she’s manipulating me. And just like that, the trust I had for her is shattered.
“Please, do the right thing – you don’t want anything to ruin your chance at SOFA,” she says. “You’ll need a character reference from Mr Campbell.”
Miss Reed spends the rest of the session trying to get details of my SOFA portfolio, my plan, the meaning behind my works, the next location, where I’ve bombed. Her attempt to use SOFA and Mr Campbell’s reference as leverage for me to come clean.
“I’m undecided about SOFA.” A big fat lie – I’m more motivated than ever.
There’s a knock on Miss Reed’s door, and Mr Anderson pops his head in. “Sorry to interrupt, it’s urgent.”
As they leave, Miss Reed turns to me. “Wait here.”
Alone in her office, I grab the stack of phone cards and slip them in my pocket and escape into the corridor, where Mr Campbell appears next to me.
I take giant strides and continue down the empty, quiet hall.
He matches my pace. “Just wanted to make it clear that I will be marking your end-of-year portfolio that you intend to submit to SOFA.”
“Yes, sir.” I know that. I’m speeding up, the end of the hall in sight, my study class through the doors on the other side.
“I’ll also be your referee, which is a SOFA requirement to enter.”
Where’s he going with this? “Yes, thank you.”
“We wouldn’t want to do anything ...” He pauses for a second, pulls on the sleeve of my shirt and tugs me into an empty class, shutting the door behind him. “You wouldn’t want to do anything that would jeopardise your chance of getting into SOFA, would you?”
It’s like the conversation with Miss Reed is repeating itself.
He’s worried I’ll nark about the stolen computers; he should be more concerned about the Katie thing. I get it – he could lose his job, his precious reputation, his fake engagement. He could also ruin any chance I have to do something with my life other than living on the streets. He’s not wrong. I need his stupid class and him to be a referee.
I sense his impatience as I stand there, clutching the straps of my bag, his graph tab in my backpack.
He sounds desperate, looks defeated. He glances around, his voice still in a whisper. “I understand you organised a meeting with Mr Anderson for this afternoon.”
“I didn’t organise anything.”
He doesn’t look convinced. “Mr Anderson said Dylan Marshall and another student, who doesn’t want to be named, have set up a meeting to discuss allegations against me. I borrowed some tablets from school as stock for my shop, so if you cancel the meeting with Mr Anderson, I can make the referee happen.”
He’s more worried about Mr Anderson finding out about stolen technology than the Katie thing.
“Make that meeting not happen. There are private data files on that graphics tablet.”
I bet there are; bet he’s made a tidy profit too.
He looks desperate now, part begging. “I’ll lose the shop if Mr Anderson finds out about the computers. I shouldn’t have told you, but money has been tight. Miss Reed said you’d understand.” And there’s real sadness and worry in his eyes. He’s worried I’m narking on him about stolen computers. I don’t get why he’s not worried about the Katie thing. Isn’t that a more serious allegation? It could cost him more than his stupid reputation, shop and job. He’d never get another job teaching art, and he’d possibly even end up in jail.
The door swings open, and it’s only then I realise that the class is empty, but there are open laptops on most of the desks, and school bags line the side wall. Streams of juniors float in. I squeeze past the horde, leaving Mr Campbell there, blocked by a ton of students.
I race down the hall to my study class.
The bell for the end of school rings, and I still haven’t made up my mind about going to meet with Libby or not.
I walk past the admin office and look down the corridor to Mr Anderson’s door. Libby sits outside, waiting for me, head down, looking through a chemistry study guide. I hate the thought of letting her down. Her hair is out today and a tad wild. I’m not sure why I like it like that; it’s imperfect, a surprising detail about her. She crosses her legs on the seat and chews on the end of her pen. I’m such a weirdo right now, torn between desperate need to run away, and fighting the urge to send her a GIF that reflects this situation – a guy standing on the edge of a crumbling clifftop feels oddly appropriate.
I hide behind the administration wall and watch as Libby takes her phone out of her pocket.
Mrs Saxton, the admin lady, stops tapping on her computer behind me.
“What are you doing? Shouldn’t you be in that meeting? Libby’s already there.”
I don’t say anything. My phone beeps. A message from Libby.
I’m here. Mr Anderson is running late. You coming?
I’m torn. If I don’t go, she’ll never talk to me again. If I go, I lose my reference for SOFA.
Mrs Saxton gets out of her chair. “This is ridiculous,” she says to me. “Just walk down the hall, there’s nothing to fear from Mr Anderson. You of all people should know that.”
Libby looks up at Mrs Saxton. I’m still hidden behind the wall so Libby can’t see me.
“Suit yourself.” She faces Libby and points at the wall I’m hiding behind. “He’s hiding, scared; you might need to drag him into that meeting.”
I bolt into the hallway, where neither of them can see, but I’m still in earshot.
I wish I had the guts to send a message: Can we ditch the meeting and hang anyway? Why is it that the girl who could ruin everything makes me beam technicolour, and why do I have to figure that out now – the worst possible timing?
Mr Anderson’s door opens. “Libby, we ready? Where’s Dylan?”
“He’s supposed to be here; I think he’s running late.” And the office door shuts.
I lean back against the wall, and Mrs Saxton peeks around the corner. “Is it Libby or Mr Anderson you’re worried about seeing?”
I say nothing, like a coward. I picture Libby waiting. By now, she’ll have lost hope that I’ll show. The thought makes me want to run right in there.
It’s fifteen minutes past our meeting time, and I’m still outside in the hall. I check the time on my phone, tell myself I’ll go into the meeting in the next minute, but when the minute passes, I can’t bring myself to do it. The truth is, I’ve made up my mind. After my no-show, Libby will believe I have zero morals, and she’d be right. I lost my morals when I started stealing to live. SOFA is me surviving and supersedes all moral judgement.
My phone beeps; Dad sends me a list of things he wants me to lift from the supermarket. No Hey, how’s your day – just beer, lighter, cigarettes. I slip my phone in my pocket, regret heavy on my chest, not because I’ve put SOFA first, but because I’ve lost Libby as a friend, if you could even call us that.
I ride the beach track towards home. My phone beeps. I pull over on the side of the way, the beach bright and blue. My stomach rolls seeing her name on my screen. Mr Anderson would like your side of the story. I wouldn’t have told him you were with me if I’d known you wouldn’t show. Thought you of all people would be keen to stand up for what’s morally right.
I hit Reply, type a long-winded text about how I need SOFA to change my life, to be someone, and that I can’t go against Mr Campbell. But I delete it and settle on Sorry. I hit Send.
I should feel pumped, excited. I’ve stuck up for myself. I am, but it’s smothered by thoughts of Libby, and no matter how much I remind myself that this is the best decision, I can’t force her out of my mind, like a really catchy annoying song.