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It’s three days into my suspension and the days have dragged. Muffled, unfamiliar drunken voices sing along to some crap ’90s remake blaring from the Mitsi. I lie on my cardboard mattress. Dad’s made new buddies and they party all day and night. It’s eleven a.m. on a Friday, but they’re not bothered. Seeing as there are zero houses around, there’s no one to make a noise complaint. Police would hit the jackpot if they turned up; they’d find a halo of weed, cars with no number plates, and liquor I know my dad didn’t buy.
I’m not sure how much more I can take. My plan was to spend as little time as possible here, only to sleep, which has become impossible as the parties never stop.
I pull my phone from my pocket; nothing from Libby. Bear nudges my bag, which falls over, spilling the graph tab onto the floor.
“I know, girl. I should get drawing.” But since SOFA is off the cards, I have zero motivation. Bear buries herself in my bag and pulls out an empty chip packet; she licks what crumbs remain. We’re out of food – there’s nothing, no human or dog food.
I grab my bike and walk it past the adults.
“Boy, get me some ciggies.” Dad turns to his groupies. “Boys, put your order in, and my boy will go get it.”
They yell out stuff, clearly none of them having any clue how hard it is to conceal a dozen beers and several casks of wine. They’re dreaming.
“Sure, got it,” I tell them. I really don’t and won’t.
I head into town and leave the noise behind. Somehow, I end up at SOFA public gallery. People my age are rushing from one place to another, like they know where they’re going. They’ve got the direction and destination sorted.
I’m not sure why I’m here, torturing myself. The outside of the main gallery is black and painted in epically detailed florals. The artist is mad talented. Inside the basketball-court-sized gallery, split into sections with floor-to-ceiling street art, an artist passes me pushing a trolley jammed with spray – the good kind, the colours a whole rainbow, not hidden in a backpack.
This is the only place where street art is valued. Hell, it’s embedded in its culture; it makes up its soul. Without street art, there would be no SOFA; it’s immortalised on every wall. For a conservative city with a zero-tolerance policy on street art outside of these doors, SOFA is hitting back hard; the community here backs their artists and art hardcore. I take in the place – this is what it feels like to be home.
I stop at the lady behind the desk. “How much to get in?”
She lifts her thick-rimmed glasses. “Honey, are you with the school group at eleven thirty?”
I am if it means I don’t have to pay to get in. “Yes, I am.”
“Oh, sweetheart, you wait over there, and your class will start soon.”
A stream of people flows in. I sit in the couched area opposite a two-storey wall hung with portraits painted in popping candy colours that match their happy faces.
As the spot where I’m sitting fills with students – by the number of people wearing SOFA hoodies, this is the first-year class – the lecturer comes in.
“You must be new,” she says, and she hands me, along with everyone else, a thick pad of white cartridge paper, a metal tin of watercolour pencils, and markers – the expensive ones where the colours pop off the page. The type Mum would drool over in the art shop but could never afford to buy herself.
“Follow me,” the lecturer says.
We follow the small, blonde lady with the pixie haircut to a studio, where easels are placed in an oval around a bunch of random objects: a large vase of flowers, a car engine, and a mannequin.
I copy the other students and take my place in front of one of the easels.
“Hey, man, over here.” A dude I’ve never met hands me a stool and sits at the easel next to me.
“Thanks, thanks heaps.” I feel like my kind is welcome here – I feel like I’m where I’m meant to be.
The lecturer turns on some music, and I watch everybody open their art folders and pull out half-finished drawings, presumably from a previous class. I sketch a portrait of Libby, set in a background of technicolour flowers. I block in colour.
The guy next door leans over. “Nice skills, love the street-art vibe.”
I don’t know what to say; I have no words. I look at his work, a completely different vibe, an intricate, black, lifelike flower. “Amazing, the detail.”
The lecturer stands behind me, and my heart picks up its beat.
“Street-art style – love it. We need one in our group. Keep it up.”
I could be in a dream.
A few hours later, the lecturer announces, “Until next time.”
I pack up and hand her the watercolour pencils and card.
“They come out of your fees,” she says. “You keep all materials in this class.”
The guy from before walks out with me. “What class you got next?”
“Er, the exhibition.”
“It’s cool that you get real practice making and hanging frames, aye.” And he hurries off with the others, most in different directions, I assume to get to their next class.
I have no idea what he’s talking about, what class I described, but I want in.
I walk around the other galleries, which exhibit every art style you can imagine, from teeny watercolours to giant murals. I look up at the mural taking up the entire back wall of the last gallery: a forest, in intricate detail. The artist blurb reads, Dan Miles. A muralist, street artist, illustrator. Here you can be any kind of artist you want, but most of all, you can be who you really are.
I head out of the gallery, and I’m unlocking my bike when my phone beeps. Libby’s name on my screen. My insides glow. There’s no actual message, but a picture of Libby and Katie as little girls, Libby dressed up as a policewoman and Katie as an artist. Come celebrate Libby and Katie’s eighteenth birthday party, followed by an address and time and BYO.
It’s tomorrow night. The fact she picked my name from her contact list as someone she wants to spend time with, I’m luminous. But only for a nanosecond. She’s got a boyfriend, and I’m sure he’ll be there. And even while I think it’s not a good idea to go, I’m replying: Cool, see you then.
She replies with one smiley rosy-cheek emoji.
I’m feeling that emoji hard. I bike towards the supermarket. I’m not a fan of BYO of any sort, but I want to blend in. Plus, we need some essentials.
I lock my bike outside the supermarket where the rich people shop; where the staff don’t watch closely, like there’s an expectation you’ve got lots of cash. I pass through the doors and pick up a basket. The thing about lifting stuff – you’ve gotta fake it, pretend you have a stack of cash, then you’ll blend in. The trick is confidence.
I walk down the pet food section. A jumbled list forms in my mind of what I need for the party. Deodorant, soap, booze. Do I need to bring a present? I have nothing she’d want and no money. As I stack five small dog food tins in the basket, I slip two up the sleeve of my jacket, balanced in the palm of my hand and hidden from view, then drop them in my jacket pocket. I use the same technique at the mini salami and pita bread section until my pockets can’t take anymore without being noticeably stuffed. You can’t be greedy; it’s a sure way to get caught by the supermarket staff, then questioned by the police in front of everyone. I can’t take that again. And just to top things off, they stick your photo on the shop doors; it’s a new thing.
I wander the deodorant and body wash section. Even the aisle smells clean – cleaner than me. All the bottles are neatly lined up; they remind me of Libby and how great she was with Jack. I focus on the smallest bottles I can find, which come as a travel pack of mini things: deodorant, soap, comb, toothpaste, body wash – no hair gel, but otherwise, it’s perfect. If I’d taken the bag of stuff Libby offered me at the library, I wouldn’t be here right now.
I drop the packet of travel minis in my basket and look around, which is a rookie mistake. I try the stick-them-up-my-sleeve thing, but the packet is too big, too obvious. I watch the passers-by while I wait for another chance. I try again, checking both ends of the aisle, a supermarket worker now at one end. A lady wheels up a trolley of stock and slices the box with a craft knife. Before she lifts the handful of shampoo bottles onto the shelf, she looks over at me. The rectangular packet is now half wedged up my sleeve, stuck, half in, half out. I turn in a way that hopefully hides my hand. The lady holds her focus a little longer than is polite.
I pretend to look intently for something on the shelf when I hear, “It’s newspaper curtains boy.” Luka and an older-looking twin appear next to me. My gut sinks.
His brother looks confused. “What?”
Luka explains in detail about me nearly backing over him and the significance of the newspaper.
They laugh hysterically. I edge away, and my only option is to move towards the supermarket lady. Passing Luka and his brother means navigating past an elderly lady, but her trolley is stuck in the middle of the aisle and I need a clean run. That or I’ll drop what’s in my hand.
All I can do is ignore them so as not to attract more attention. Turns out being seen is overrated.
“What’s that in your pocket – newspaper curtains?” Luka yells, purposely looking at the supermarket lady. “Looks dodgy to me.”
I edge between Luka and the old lady and walk down the aisle towards the checkout. I drop the basket, still balancing the travel bag in my sleeve, secured only by the palm of my hand.
They follow behind. “In a hurry? What’s in your pocket?” he repeats down the aisle.
Two ladies at the customer service look at me, then behind. One holds a walkie-talkie to her mouth. At this point I can drop what I’ve got and run, or just run. It’s lunchtime and the aisles are now filled with uniforms, so I go with a third option, playing it cool by the checkout and pretending to ponder the newspaper. I recognise Mr Campbell’s shop window on the cover, a dinosaur tearing Katie’s head off.
The supermarket lady edges between me and the newspaper. “Can I help you?”
They know you don’t need help; they’re trying to stall so they can get their reinforcements ready, aka the local policeman.
“I’m good, thanks, just reading.” Trying to act casual.
Entering the checkout with his brother, Luka stacks a dozen beers on the conveyor belt. He’s behind the lady, making faces. He holds up a can of deodorant. “This one’s good, I hear.”
“Sir.” The shop lady sounds impatient. “Come this way, please. We would like to have a little chat.”
The dude with Manager on his name tag puts one hand on my shoulder and escorts me to a chair at the front of the shop. I take a seat while he stands in front of me.
Shoppers watch, like I’m a spectacle, a sideshow for their cheap entertainment.
There’s no point in denial – it only extends the time they interrogate you.
“What’s in your pockets, bud?”
I say nothing and empty the stuff from my sleeve and front hoody pocket into the basket.
“Anything else?”
Luka and his brother move out of the checkout, and Luka holds up his phone as the policeman from school appears next to me. Luka snaps a few pictures or video, which I’m sure he’ll gladly share with Libby and the rest of the world.
“Dylan, we meet again. You’ll need to come with me to the station.”
I follow him out of the supermarket, past the photos of the other criminals stuck on the shop’s front window. My picture will be there by day end for all to see. I’m sure Luka will post that, too.
The police officer starts the engine, and we drive through the car park, passing Luka, his brother, and Katie, who’s slipping into a white station wagon. I duck down from view.
We pull up at the police station. The officer takes me to a room. The last time I was here I was under eighteen, and they made me wait for a parent to arrive, which didn’t happen, and they eventually sent me home with a note on my record that child services would pay a visit.
The policeman sits at the table opposite me.
“Who can I call, mate? Your caregiver?” And then he does something no other policeman has done before. Out of a cupboard in this dingy office, he brings out a box labelled Homeless essentials and rests it on the table. “Help yourself to a few things.” He hands me a bag.
The box contains an eclectic mix of tinned food, toothbrushes, and hair ties. I pick out two tins of dog food and place them in the bag. “Thank you.”
“Here – this and this,” he says as he loads the bag till it’s bursting.
“Thanks.”
I’m not sure what to make of this.
“I know you boys do it rough – your pets, too.”
Is it that obvious?
He sits back at the table and asks me a bunch of questions, then gives me a lecture on how my future is dependent upon not adding any more to my permanent record.
“Unfortunately, you’re eighteen and an adult under the law, so this will go on your permanent record.”
A lady pops into the office. “No answer, I’ll keep trying.”
“I’ve tried calling your dad, but so far there’s no pickup.”
“He’s at work,” I lie.
“And where’s that?” He has his tablet, and I can see he’s waiting for me to tell him so he can update the data. The problem is, I can’t remember what lie I told them last time.
“The pulp and paper mill.”
“Oh, right – so same place.”
“Yes.”
Basically, there’s nothing he can do. I sit there for three hours until he abandons hope that Dad will turn up and dishes out another warning.
“Look, I know you’re doing it rough. There are services that can help with the essentials.” He passes me a list of websites, the Red Gallery Café included.
I know most of these services – most people living rough do. In stealing food, I at least feel like I’m doing something to help myself, rather than relying on the pity of others. But sometimes there’s little choice.
The police officer has been nice, a refreshing surprise. “Thanks.”
And like that, he lets me go, even helps pull my bike out of his boot.
“You got talent, kid. Direct it somewhere positive.”
I’m so taken aback at his use of the word “talent” that I’m slow to connect the dots. Now that he knows my work, he’ll recognise it all around town.
When I get back to the tent, the music has stopped, and bottles and rubbish are scattered everywhere. All the people have gone, including Dad and the Mitsi. I check on Bear in the tent. As soon as she sees me, she races to her bowl outside the bathroom wall and nudges it with her nose. Out of my bag, I grab one of the tins the policeman gave me and drop food into her bowl, then refill her water dish.
My bomb stares back, the home-with-the-tent scene. I walk around to other side of the bathroom, which is unpainted, drop my bag in front of the wall and bomb the wall in black. While I wait for the paint to dry, I pick up all the bottles and rubbish, filling the public rubbish bin and repacking the empties into the beer-bottle boxes.
Back at the wall, I spray a portrait of a guy with rat features, but not in the ugly way most associate with rats. Knowing eyes, tidy fur, glasses, rounded ears, and a mischievous smile.
And I spray the definition of vermin: Perceived as despicable and as causing problems for the rest of society. I put an X through the sentence and spray misunderstood in black. I pull out the graph tab to take a picture ... battery dead.
Back in the tent, I text Marv. Keen? I attach the picture of Libby and Katie’s birthday party invite.
I get an immediate reply. Always, bro. Come by work at 9.