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I wait till the second bell has rung and the corridor is empty before I make my way to art. I peek through the window in the art-room door, my heart wound up; I spot Libby talking to Katie and my stomach rolls. I’m a real spew risk. Out of my bag, I rip a piece of paper from the back page of my art book and write: Sorry. I fold the page in half; I contemplate elaborating, but it’s pointless, she will never understand why I had to stand her up, that all my hope was tied up in that one shot at SOFA. You’d only understand if you were in my shoes.
I push open the door. The room goes silent and everyone stares, exactly as I predicted. News spreads fast when your artwork is pointed and in-your-face. I walk up to Libby, focus on the ground, heart drumming, and drop the note in front of her. I don’t wait for her to say anything. The class is quiet, watching my every move, the silence from Libby deafening.
I take my seat. Through the window I can see Mr Anderson standing next to a policeman who’s taking photos. Mr Anderson looks up and directly at me. I divert my focus to my desk. I can still feel people looking at me, and I’m relieved when, from the corner of my eye, I watch Libby walk up to Mr Campbell’s radio and switch it on; the school radio station blares. Instead of going back to her seat, she heads towards me, slides a folded note in front of me, and immediately goes back to her seat. I make the mistake of glancing up – I’m being watched, every move I make – and decide to save the note for later.
Katie whispers, “What’s that all about?”
Libby takes the seat next to her. “It’s nothing.”
Miss Reed walks in and stands at the front of the class, a substitute teacher next to her. “Mrs Gibbs will be taking your class for the next wee while.”
She scans the room and pauses on me. “Dylan, come with me, please.”
I grab my bag, walk down the aisle. As I pass Libby, we make eye contact for a split second and it’s like she’s about to say something.
Miss Reed is next to me. “Come on.” Cold, in a way I’ve never heard before.
She walks a few steps ahead. She’s never purposely ignored me before, but everyone has a breaking point, and I guess this is hers – she’ll never have my back again. I swallow hard, fighting to squash the heaviness that wants to fall out. Miss Reed and I will never be the same.
We reach the two seats outside Mr Anderson’s office.
“Wait here.”
I sit; Miss Reed stands with her back to me. “We’ve tried calling your dad so he can be in the meeting, but we haven’t had a reply.” Her voice is clinical, this isn’t the Miss Reed I know.
I say nothing; there’s no surprise Dad didn’t care. I had gotten used to Miss Reed acting in his place.
“You do know how serious these allegations are, don’t you?” I sense the agitation in her voice. “He was with me that afternoon; I have proof.” She shows me the ring on her finger. “Do the right thing and come clean,” she says, and she knocks on the door, not waiting for a reply.
I hear talking behind Mr Anderson’s door but can’t make out what they’re saying. Stacked against the wall are a bucket of paint, a drop sheet, blue overalls, and a paintbrush.
Mr Anderson opens the door. “Dylan.” He directs me to the seat opposite his desk, next to a police officer who’s already sitting. A photo of a shirtless blond man steering a yacht sits on the desk.
The officer stands and holds out his hand; there’s an eagle tattoo on his forearm, the wings stretching from his wrist to the inside crease of his elbow.
I shake his hand firmly. “Dylan, sir.”
“Constable Mike.”
As we take our seats, he pulls a black notebook from the top pocket of his padded vest, which has a sparkly unicorn sticker on the front.
Once the pleasantries are over with, Mr Anderson wastes no time getting to the point. “Two reasons you are here. We’ll start with the artwork. The graffiti on the school wall – we have reason to believe it was you? Is it your work?”
My leg jiggles. Silence fills the room. The stares of Mr Anderson and the police officer weigh in on me, suffocating.
“No.”
Mr Anderson turns his computer screen around and presses the space bar. “We believe this is you.” Sure enough, there I am, spraying the art-room wall. It’s blurry, but there’s no mistaking the bag on the ground at my feet, the exact same shoes and bag as I’m wearing now.
Mr Anderson goes on and on about needing a support person, and living with the consequences of my actions.
“The exact same artwork is on the front of Mr Campbell’s shop,” the policeman says. “Is it yours?”
They stare with penetrating eyes, waiting for an answer. I fiddle with the cuff of my school jersey; an excuse to not look at them. It’s not like I can deny it.
“Yes,” I admit.
The policeman folds his arms. “Was it you who broke into Mr Campbell’s shop and stole the spray paint?”
I hesitate. It’s not like I can deny that either. “Yes,” I say to the ground. If there’s a hole to sink into, I need it now.
Mr Anderson goes on about how the shop incident and the school incident are being treated separately. “I’ll leave it to the police to follow their process regarding the stolen paint and graffiti on Mr Campbell’s shop. But as for your work on the side of the art class, you’re fortunate that you will only be suspended. If you’d stolen school property, you would have been expelled.”
I clutch the straps of my school bag still on my back, Mr Campbell’s stolen graph tab inside, technically school property. If Mr Anderson sees it, he’ll assume I stole that, too.
“Suspended.”
“Yes. For five days, and you must clean up all the graffiti and apologise to Mr Campbell.”
Suspended. That’s a relief. I thought for sure I’d be expelled.
The police officer hands me his card. “This is your time and day to meet at the police station. We will go through our process then.”
Mike opens the community paper and passes it to Mr Anderson; he looks at the front page, sighs, and shakes his head.
On the front page: Mr Campbell’s shop window, my artwork front and centre, and the headline, Is there something sinister with Mr Campbell’s art shop that we ought to know?
“You’re to clean up the graffiti on Mr Campbell’s shop – all of it,” Mike says.
“Will this give me a criminal record?” I ask the policeman, not sure why that matters anymore either.
“Because you’re over eighteen – just – yes.”
I look at my leg jiggling. Suspended and a criminal record, there is ZERO chance of SOFA.
Mr Anderson says goodbye to the police officer and sits back in his seat. “Right, the thing we need to discuss.”
I look out the window, watch the policeman get in his car.
“About the allegations that Libby has made against Mr Campbell. Were you with Libby at the beach?”
I focus on the police car rolling down the school drive, and ignore Mr Anderson.
“Now is not the time to play games; Libby and Libby’s dad have confirmed you were at the beach. We know you were together.”
“Okay, I was with Libby.”
“Libby is a respected, trusted student, one of our top. Are you aware of the allegations she is making?”
“What allegations?”
Mr Anderson peers at me, his gaze boring into my soul. “Did you see Mr Campbell at the beach with Katie?” His tone is agitated.
“Yes. Well – I think it was him, but I’m not sure; it was hard to see.” The walls are caving in.
“Right,” Mr Anderson says. He stares at me intently. “I have reason to believe that Mr Campbell was not at the beach, that he was elsewhere at the time. He was proposing to Miss Reed. I have photo and video evidence that’s captured the exact time and date. It couldn’t have been him in the car with Katie.” He sighs. “Your actions could have cost him his job, his career, his shop.”
Nausea crowds my insides. He wasn’t with Katie. So, who was Katie with, then?
“We have more investigations to do. In the meantime, you are suspended till Wednesday. I don’t want to see you back in my office until then.”
Mr Anderson stands and opens the door. He hands me the pail of paint and stacks the overalls, drop sheet, and paintbrush on top. “I’m meeting with Katie next.” He closes the door.
I pull Libby’s note from my pocket and read the message. Please don’t tell Katie it was me who told Mr Anderson, she’ll never speak to me again.
I stand back and look up at the bombed art-room wall; the word predator would be visible from space. Behind me, groups of students eat lunch in the courtyard. I hear their whispers, feel the stares. I slip into the overalls, lay out the drop sheet, open the tin of paint, dip my brush in, and paint a box around the three dinosaurs. I wish my head had been torn off; it would be less embarrassing and a faster way to end all of this.
Behind me, a familiar voice: “Hey.”
I turn and see Libby holding a paintbrush; my body tingles with pins and needles.
“Hey.”
She rolls up her sleeves and dips her brush in the paint; Mr Campbell Room 7a is written on the handle of the brush, which makes me smile. Libby stands next to me and glides the paintbrush down her side of the wall, splitting the box I painted in two, and sets to work her brushstrokes, forming a neat patchwork of grids.
“I guess we were wrong about Mr Campbell. I’m so embarrassed and sorry – you were right,” Libby says.
Neither of us looks at the other.
“It’s all good.” It’s really not. But how can I make her feel bad when she thought she was doing the right thing? I should be pissed at her. She’s half the reason I’m suspended. But despite all that, I admire the person she is, that she has the guts to apologise, to face me when she knows she made a mistake. This makes it impossible to be angry at her.
I slop my brush onto the wall; paint drips down it in uneven dribbles.
As we fill in our sides of the box, we edge closer.
“I’m sorry, too, and thanks for ... you know ... helping.” Libby looks at me, her brush pausing mid-stroke.
“Don’t mention it.” A smile escapes my face. She’s here helping me, despite everything that’s happened.
Her focus returns to the wall. As she finishes her side with one last stroke, she stands back. “Spot the messy one. You’re not a ‘colour within the lines’ kind of guy, are ya?”
I glance at my messy side. “Really, not.”
We stand next to each other again, side by side, her arm dangling beside me, her hand just there. Sun shines on the wall, showing the individual brush strokes, mine messy, in all different directions, the paint uneven; hers tidy in grids with an even distribution of colour.
“I’m sorry ... for standing you up at the meeting with Mr Anderson ...”
Libby’s attention diverts to Katie as she storms towards us.
“What the hell kind of rumours have you spread?” she says, stopping in front of Libby. Her face flushes red. “What’s up with that shit? You told Mr Anderson all that bullshit?”
Something tells me she’s had a meeting with Mr Anderson. The bell blares, and the groups of students head to class, glancing back at us.
I look at Libby. All eyes in the courtyard are on us.
I see the shift in Libby’s expression, the moment she realises that if she doesn’t say the right thing, her friendship with Katie could be over forever.
Libby fumbles. “Katie, I’m so sorry ... I ... um.” Her eyes are wide.
I clear my throat. “It was all me. Libby didn’t nark, it was me. I did it ... all me ... I lied so I’d have something against Mr Campbell ... so he’ll pass me in art ...” I’m scrambling, but I can see she’s buying it. The relief on Libby’s face is edging me on.
Katie turns to Libby. “Is it true? You didn’t nark?”
Libby nods.
Katie grabs Libby’s arm and drags her away towards the field. All I hear is, “I don’t get him at all,” and, “you’re lucky Mum didn’t cancel our party plans.”
As I pack up the paint stuff, I imagine their party, a room full of stuck-up rich kids drinking liquor stolen from their parents. Luka’s arm over Libby’s shoulder.
By the time I’ve picked up everything and returned it to the spare seat by Mr Anderson’s office, the halls are silent. I head outside to my bike. Now that I’m forbidden to be at school for five days, I’d do anything to be allowed back, accepted in. So I can see Libby again.