Seven

I lie in the tent and listen to Dad and his buddies outside, off their faces. I feel for my phone at the bottom of my sleeping bag. Two emails, one each from Mr Anderson and Mr Campbell. I swallow hard; this is not going to be pretty.

I click on the email from Mr Anderson. It’s a meeting request for tomorrow and a reminder to bring a support person. Ha, that’s funny. If they’re cool with a drunk, then that’s their choice.

And then I get to the email from Mr Campbell.

I see you met with Mr Anderson and told many lies; he is standing me down from teaching – effective immediately. Our deal is off.

I pull back my hand and drive my fist through my washing box, leaving the most unsatisfying dent as the box smashes into the tent wall. I get changed and storm to my emergency stash of spray cans hidden under a gap in the toilet block. It’s dark, the white brick wall illuminated by moonlight. I swing my fist back and drive it into the wall; blood drips. The pain radiating through my fingers and up into my shoulder does nothing to simmer me down. My palms sweat, my throat’s thick; I pull the cans from underground, shake each one – most are empty or close to. I have a surprise for Mr Campbell, and it’s loud and stupid, and I don’t care because I have nothing to lose.

Dad leans against the bonnet of the Mitsi. “What’s all that about? Girl trouble?” There’s a beer in one hand, and an assortment of booze bottles sitting on the car bonnet. Opposite Dad, a dude leans against a beat-up technicolour Datsun. His potbelly, ginger beard, and especially the halo of weed smoke send me a dodgy Santa vibe.

Dad raises his beer. “Joint us?”

Dodgy Santa laughs.

I ignore them and turn on the tap outside of the toilet block, filling Bear’s water bowl. She winds around my feet until I stick the bowl on the ground, then she sniffs the water and pushes her bowl at my feet. “I know, girl,” I say, ruffling her head. I’m just as hangry as she is.

I turn to Dad. “Get any dog food while out buying booze?” I know the answer. I don’t know why I’m asking.

“Next trip to town, promise.”

“You? Keep a promise? That’s a joke.”

Using a torch, I search through the Mitsi for anything that can pass as dog food or human food, but come up empty. I dig the car for my emergency stash while gathering stuff I need for Mr Campbell’s surprise.

Dad pulls a bourbon and cola from the twelve-pack on the bonnet. “Tough night, boy? Take a load off, tell me what’s troubling ya?”

I’m not stupid, and even if I wanted to, the lump in my throat makes speaking difficult. I find a tin of dog food for Bear, open the can and empty it into her bowl.

From the Mitsi, I pull apart the cardboard from the bourbon and cola boxes. I tape the pieces together to form one sheet on the concrete floor, and Dad and his buddy continue drinking as if I’m not there. I cut out a stencil, the outline of Katie, a dinosaur, and the word predator. Dad and his buddy down booze and smoke a bag of weed as I cut the shapes. Once I’m done, I grab my bike, strap the torch to my handlebars using masking tape, and cycle down the road with the stencils secured under my arm, heading towards Mr Campbell’s shop.

Down Main Street, the streetlights are still lit. Before-dawn commuter buses pass; I stop outside Mr Campbell’s art shop, the front windows dark. My heart pounds. I’m an idiot. It’s upper Main Street, the poshest, hippest part of town, and I’m about to do what I’m about to do at 5.17 a.m., with the sun rising and traffic already starting to build.

I ride around the back, lean my bike against the shop, line up a rubbish bin under the toilet window and slip through into a bathroom below. I scan the room for red flashes of security lights. From what I can tell, there’s an alarm in the office with the door closed; I assume that’s where all the expensive stuff is kept, like the laptops and graph tabs that Mr Campbell has been hoarding from school.

Better to know if there’s an alarm now than mid-haul. I climb over unpacked boxes and shimmy sideways around high piles of merchandise. The skinny isles are so crammed that I might as well be running an obstacle course.

The spray paint is in no order you’d expect, the colours and different brands mixed up in a bunch of boxes. I wade through to find the colours I need, drop the cans into my open bag. I empty a bin with random packets of modelling clay and fill the box; I’ve got a big space to cover. The mix of brands will create colour variation, but it’s going to have to do. Now’s not the time to worry about perfect colour matches.

I navigate the aisle and carry the box carefully in smooth movements so as not to drop any sprays out of my busted bag.

In the bathroom, I poke holes into the sides of the box, thread a towel on either side to make a handle so I can lower the box to the ground. I push and squeeze; there’s no way to get the box out the window without tipping the spray cans over the concrete.

The sky is no longer pitch black but lit with indigo; I’m losing time.

I dump my bag and box by the back door and search for a fire extinguisher or hammer. Scanning the utility cupboard, I find a hammer and smash the crap out of the lock on the door till it’s mangled enough for me to push the door open.

I carry the stuff around to the front of the shop and drop it by the entrance window. I’m insane. Maybe people passing will think I’m being paid to do this, but I doubt it.

I tape the stencil pieces on the window, taking up the full height, and block in the green for the dinosaur, spray Katie’s black hair with her head jammed in the dinosaur’s mouth dripping with blood, and fill in blue for her uniform.

From Katie’s mouth, I draw a speech bubble with the word predator inside. This time I don’t spray Xavier in the corner.

There’s something about using Mr Campbell’s spray to graffiti his own shop. It’s cheap revenge, but it’s all I got.

I fill my bag with the remaining cans.

I ride along the beach path, traffic building, the sun rising above the horizon. Teachers usually start arriving at school at seven thirty, and it’s ten past now.

I reach the back of the school’s sports field and cut across the grass to the front of the administration block. There are no cars in the school car park, but there will be soon. I bike around to the triple-storey stacks of school classes centred around a courtyard and lean my bike against the art building.

The security lights flick on. On the wall by the side door that opens onto the courtyard, I hold up my stencils, tape each one in place, spray outlines and repeat the image twice down the wall, taking up the entire side of the building. Outside the front of school, I hear a car come down the drive. The sun’s high enough that if anyone were to spot me, they’d have a perfect view. As I stand back and look at the wall, my stomach rolls, part victory – girls will know to stay away from Mr Campbell – part euphoric, hoping Libby will see that I know what’s morally right and wrong. And Miss Reed will be interested enough to at least ask questions.

The lights in the teachers’ coffee lounge flick on. I push the spray and stencils in my bag, bike through the backfield and along the beach track until school is out of sight. I climb up a sand dune and plop onto the freezing sand, the tide rolling out with each passing wave, while I wait for school to start. The wind numbs my insides. I should be freaking out, sure I’ll get snapped, but what can they take away? Nothing. I’d care if I had anything to lose. I’ve lost everything that meant anything.

A seagull soars over the water and squawks. The scent of salty air circles on the breeze. The coastline and sky are wide open, my chest heavy and constricted. At exactly ten to nine, predictably, the school bell rings. Nausea takes over – everyone will know it’s me, they’ll gossip and stare. I wouldn’t bother going to school if it wasn’t for Libby, and the overwhelming urge to apologise to her. A stupid part of me hopes she’ll understand why I had to stand her up.