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Dad didn’t text to say he wasn’t coming home last night. I heard him and his buddies take off somewhere, but he didn’t mention where he was going or when he’d be back; he never does.
Bear crawls up from inside my sleeping bag and licks my cheek. Last night was polar, the coldest night in the tent so far. Even wearing every item of clothing I own and triple socks, the freeze takes over my core and won’t leave.
I pop my head out of the tent. Frost covers the sports ground, glistening white. It won’t be long till the first snow arrives.
A car parks out front, and the dodgy Santa-looking dude helps Dad out of the car, flopping him over his shoulder.
I give a parental eye roll. “What’s he done now?”
“He mixed up too many things.” Even dodgy Santa dude rolls his eyes. “Name’s Ginge. Where you want him?”
I lead the way to the tent, open the zip and hold back the door flap; he ducks in and lays Dad on my mattress.
Bear scrambles out of my sleeping bag and curls up next to Dad’s grey face with its sunken cheeks. I watch Dad’s chest rise and fall; he’s alive, he only looks dead. At least someone else was doing the rescuing for a change.
Ginge’s head skims the tent roof. “Your dad was tryna convince a guy to let him live rent-free in his house, in a room barely big enough for a single mattress – he was tryin’ it on with offers of free weed and booze. Didn’t work, though.”
It takes a moment for the words to sink in. He’s gonna ditch me for his own place. I shiver; he didn’t even give me a heads up. My body tenses, ready to burst through too-tight skin. Unable to hold the pressure inside, I stomp out of the tent to the bathroom block as the lump in my throat threatens to cut my air supply. I pull my hand back and slam it into the bathroom wall. Hot searing pain radiates through my fingers into my fist and up my arm; the sense of release is electric, the red frustration dripping away, and I fall to the ground, alone in the dark.
Ginge appears and pats my back. “He’ll be right, just needs to sleep.”
He’s missed the point. Dad was going to ditch me. I flashback to Mum in the hospital, a day before her eyes closed forever, the stupid promise I made her.
Ginge helps me back to the tent; Dad’s asleep. I fight the urge to shove him – he wouldn’t care, and the inferno in my chest dies. There’s only so much energy you can give toxic people before you stop talking, before you give up and go numb.
I swallow hard. “Thanks,” I say, my voice cracking. And Ginge leaves me with Dad.
I shake Dad’s shoulders violently. “You’re going to ditch me, you piece of crap?” He’s out cold. I could leave him alone – has he thought of that? I wouldn’t, because he’s family, and if arse-kicking could happen from heaven, Mum would be on to it.
For the rest of the day, Dad sleeps. I distract myself with a sketchbook and making a birthday card for Libby, which feels lame, but without any money and her party in three hours, it’s my only option. I picture her unwrapping a present from Luka, some blingy, expensive piece of jewellery. I could get her something better, but it would mean stealing, and it wouldn’t feel right. Nothing I draw is good; I rip out the page of flowers I’ve drawn, scrunch the page in a ball, and basketball-throw it into the bin.
It’s eight thirty when Dad comes outside. “Got any food?”
“Get your own. I hear you’re looking for a place of your own.”
I hate how my throat catches and the words quiver, sounding less pissed than I wanted and more on the verge of crying. I swallow hard and manage to redirect the mounting frustration, desperate for Dad to say something – anything – hoping it was all a misunderstanding. But I know it’s not.
“Don’t be like that, boy. Where’d Ginge go?” He walks off towards the Mitsi, ignoring my question. Avoiding all emotional confrontation is his thing.
I follow behind him. “Are you gonna even answer me?”
He doesn’t turn back, doesn’t look at me, doesn’t acknowledge my existence. Even as he backs the car, there’s not one look or one word. It’s what he does when people are angry at him; he runs away, a coward afraid of facing the facts – Mum dying was his fault.
I watch the Misti leave; I feel like a shaken Coke bottle, desperate to release pressure. I swing my good hand back and slam it into the bathroom wall again. The pain takes my breath away. “Fuck it!” I yell, and once the sound stops echoing through the stadium, it’s deadly silent, and I know I’m on my own.
I ride through Central Garden Square on my way to pick up Marv. Food trucks line the edges of the square; the trees are lit with fairy lights. People chill out on the clock tower steps, stuffing fat souvlakis into their mouths, wiping rust-red sauce away from their cheeks.
I sit on the bench seat opposite the souvlaki hut. A line forms from the clock tower down to Marv, who’s filling flatbreads. Behind Marv, Mr Antoni puts a handful of meat onto a hot skillet. The oil sizzles and crackles, and a cloud of smoke billows from the cart. The aroma of barbequed lamb fills the air. My stomach groans, but I’m in no mood to eat.
Next to the souvlaki truck is a coffee cart filled with small bunches of brightly coloured flowers for sale; they remind me of Libby.
Marv holds up one hand and mouths, Five mins. A souped-up metallic car passes, releasing its blow-off valve. It drives down the street and past the Red Gallery Café. Libby will be at the party by now.
A sparrow jumps around at people’s feet, pecking at dropped burrito and souvlaki crumbs. The bird takes to the sky, its wings outstretched, and hovers over people eating. Occasionally it flies in for the bite, but bails as soon as someone makes a sudden move. It’s beautiful and brave.
I pull out a page from my sketchpad and fold it into birthday-card size. On the front, I sketch the sparrow mid-flight, wings outstretched, wide eyes, round face. I shade in the footpath behind and write in tidy letters, You’re beautiful. For a nanosecond, I think about leaving them there.
I shade over the letters, blend them into the footpath. Inside the card, I write:
Libby
Happy Birthday.
Dylan.
Marv hangs his head over my shoulder, balancing on his bike.
“Deep, bro.”
“Ready?” I slide the card into my bag. I’m not sure if I’m lame enough to give it to her.
We bike through town and wind up at Ocean View Road. The houses get less ghetto and more flash the higher we ride. With each pull on the handlebars, the cuts on my swollen hands send sparks of pain through my fingers. My lungs gasp for air. I pull over at the top and catch my breath, the city below a kaleidoscope of lights. In the distance I spot where the main road follows the sea, the dark, tree-laden gap where Dad should be.
We bike along the ridge of the hilltop. Music booms louder as we grind our way up the hill. I stop outside a black fence. “This”– I suck in a breath – “is it.”
The fence is thick with jasmine, the gaps too small to see through. The bass of a SIX60 song bounces off the hills.
Marv presses the button by a speaker next to a sign that reads Sustain Architects Ltd in green block letters.
“Hello.”
No one replies. The black metal gate in the fence swings open. At the top of the drive, two flat-roofed rectangular blocks sit side by side, connected by a glass-walled corridor. Solar panels cover the roof, and lush green plants blend the house into the bush surroundings. A garage, bigger than most houses I’ve been in, booms with music and overflows with people.
Too many people.
We lock our bikes to the front gate and make our way up the steep drive. My stomach twists, and I’m very aware we’re being watched; we’re outcasts invading new territory.
The crowd outside the garage is all girls with wide-rimmed glasses, dudes with man buns, and guys wearing hoodies with Beachlands High Football Club printed on the back. I search through them for Libby.
We walk through the crowd and into the garage, and the bass vibrates through my body. I scan the room; people dance in waves to the music.
I spot Katie in the corner. She lowers her eyes, whispers to the girl next to her. I know when I’m not welcome.
Katie disappears into the crowd, then appears in front of me. “Why are you here?”
“Libby sent me an invite.” I pull out my phone and show her the message.
“Fine.” She storms off. Maybe I should have started with “Happy birthday.”
Marv shrugs his shoulders. “Know when I’m not welcome.” He turns to leave.
And then I see her on the front steps, leaning at an odd angle, a wineglass in her hand. As I walk towards her, Luka tops up her glass and pushes it up to her mouth. Libby giggles; wine sloshes over her jeans and the arm of her black leather jacket. Luka tries again.
I place my hand over the glass. “She’s had enough.”
“Dylan,” Libby slurs, her eyes half-open – the same way Dad gets when he’s nailed. It’s unattractive, but the electricity is raging.
Luka pushes me away. “Loser! Get lost. You don’t belong here.” He faces Libby. “Caught this idiot stealing. Got a video of him being taken away in a police car.” He roars with belly laughter. “And get a load of this photo. What have we here? Is this your artwork?”
The back of my neck tenses.
He pulls out his phone. “Share, to all.” He taps his phone.
He laughs so hard he can barely finish the sentence.
That familiar lump builds in my throat, and my cheeks heat up. If this guy doesn’t shut it, he’s gonna get it.
“How do you like this?” Luka pulls Libby’s face towards his and tries to kiss her; her face flops side to side and she swats him away, which breaks her balance, and she slides to one side. I catch her before she falls off the steps. All her weight falls into me.
“Get me out of here.” Her face is pressed into my chest, extinguishing my rage. He’s lucky – the mood I’m in, I wouldn’t have held back.
And that’s when Katie fires me a look, a thanks. She’s hard to read.
“I’m sorry, Katie, for causing trouble,” I say. Libby tries to stand and falls onto me.
Marv grabs Libby’s arm and helps me steady her. “Let’s get outta here, man. Ain’t our scene.”
Libby’s head flops onto my shoulder. “I want to go home.”
I pick Libby up and haul her over my shoulder. I know I’m an idiot; this is not the smartest move. Luka is not a stable person, or trustworthy.
“I’ll take her home,” I call to Katie, who’s mid–intense conversation with Luka. She looks over, teary, but mouths, Thank you.
“I’ll call a taxi and get her bag,” she says.
Luka catches up to me. “Put her down, or else.”
“Settle, dude. I’m not stealing your girlfriend. You heard her. She asked me to take her home, where she’ll be safe.”
I speed up. Flopped over my shoulder, Libby bounces as I walk down the drive.
I’m not sure why Luka doesn’t follow, but suspect Katie has something to do with it.
Marv matches my pace. Libby’s arms around my shoulders are creating a warm imprint. She fits perfectly to the shape of my back. At the bottom of the drive, I lean her against a tree and rest one hand on her shoulder to stop her from sliding down the trunk.
Marv laughs. He joins his hands together to form a heart shape. “Bro, ya’ll got the sweeties for her.” He lights a ciggie and takes a drag, blows a puff of smoke into the night sky.
Libby picks up a handful of sycamore seeds and laughs as they helicopter to the ground.
At the top of the drive, Luka watches us as he gathers his entourage.
Katie walks down the drive with Libby’s bag, cell phone to her ear.
I take the bag and grab a packet of tissues from inside. Libby crawls away from her vomit pile and sits against the other side of the sycamore tree. The smell reminds me of Dad – not attractive, but that’s the booze talking. I kneel in front of Libby and wipe her mouth with the tissues. She looks at me, eyes half-shut, glassy and green. I’d never have picked her for a big drinker. She’s always seemed cautious, almost like she’d be morally against it. But that’s the thing about booze – it sucks the real life out of people and spits out an annoying version.
Libby rests her hand on my knee. “You’re a sweetheart.” Her body slumps as I remove my hand. Booze makes people talk either complete bullshit, or brutal honest truths they’d never have the guts to say sober. “I don’t usually drink,” she says, and swings her arms around my neck. “Huuugs.”
I wrap my arms around her and hug her back, and we’re perfectly connected, like Lego.
I throw Katie the spare top from my bag. “You change her.”
Katie doesn’t argue.
Marv lights another ciggie as we turn our backs.
Libby giggles, copying Katie when she says, “Hands up.” Then she says, in a shouted whisper, “Shhhh – it was me who told Mr Anderson about Mr Campbell.”
“What the hell?” Katie snaps back.
Libby’s timing is poor, another downside of booze. She attempts to stand, using me to pull herself up.
“She was trying to look out for you,” I say.
“I’m done,” Katie says as the taxi van pulls into the driveway and beeps.
Libby pulls my t-shirt away from her stomach, unaware Katie has stormed off and is already at the top of the hill with Luka’s arm draped over her shoulder. “We be friends, aye, Katiekins?” she says as she checks out the picture of Frida Kahlo on my t-shirt. I love that something of mine is wrapped around her body.
The cab beeps again, outside the gate.
Marv and me link our arms around Libby’s waist and walk her to the cab.
“If she’s sick, you pay to have it cleaned,” the taxi driver says.
Marv slides the van door open. I help Libby into her window seat and sit next to her. Marv rides shotgun. Libby slumps onto my shoulder; her perfume peeks through the reek of booze. I stick my bag next to me, open and ready if she needs to spew again, and grab the card I made, slipping it into her bag.
As we wind our way towards town, I text Marv: Got any cash 2 pay 4 the taxi?
He replies: Nope.
The taxi misses the shortcut to the city. I’m stoked Marv doesn’t say anything. Libby sleeps on my shoulder, one hand on my knee. It feels so right, connected, but so wrong because she’s got a boyfriend. We’re fundamentally different. She’s somebody going places, gonna achieve big and beautiful things. I’m going nowhere, fast.
The van turns the last of the hairpin corners.
We come to a stop outside the souvlaki hut. Neither of us has any money.
“That’s us, then. It’s all been taken care of,” the taxi driver says as Marv helps me steady Libby out of the van and onto the pavement.
“Think your uncle will let me IOU a souvlaki?”
“Yeah, man.” Marv pulls the bikes out of the taxi and lays them on the ground. He disappears through the side door of the souvlaki truck. I set Libby on the bench seat, and she rests her head to my shoulder again. Mr Antoni squirts sauce over a flatbread and wraps it in tinfoil.
Libby shivers. I swing my arm around her shoulders. The stars are out in force, illuminating the deep indigo sky. Libby relaxes into me as Mr Antoni brings over a blanket and drapes it over us, and I feel it’s me powering the night sky.
I remind myself it’s easy to get the wrong impression from drunk people. But I’m happy to enjoy the lie right now.
Marv steps out of the truck and hands me a coffee in a polystyrene cup. Steam rises against the frozen air.
“I’m outta here.” Marv pumps my hand. “Laters, bro.” He bikes off up Main Street.
I hold the souvlaki to Libby’s mouth. She takes a bite, chews with her eyes closed, not moving her head from my shoulder.
Libby falls asleep between bites. It takes two hours to get souvlaki and coffee into her. I can’t remember the last time anything felt this good, warm and cosy. I watch the food trucks feed the drunk and disorderly, before packing down their workstations and locking up for the night. I’m not about to disturb Libby.
Libby wakes, lifts her head and glances around, peers down at my t-shirt.
“Thanks for looking after me ... and for the clothes,” she says in a husky voice. This time her eyes focus on mine. Her mascara smudge makes the green of her eyes pop.
“Want some?” She lifts the takeaway tray, with the soggy end of souvlaki, towards me. And beams a smile – dimples pop, one in each cheek. And there it is. Electricity fires through me, illuminating every cell in my body.
“I’m good.” I laugh with her.
Libby checks her phone. “Oh shit, the time.” Her smile turns to panic as she grabs her bag and stands. “I’ve got a million missed calls from Mum.” Libby wobbles as she stands, as she texts.
I catch her as she falls. “I’ll walk you home.”
“Okay.” She loops her arm around my waist, steadying herself. My insides glow, luminous. We edge closer to the Red Gallery Café.
“I love your work around town; so does my mum.” She stops along the street, points to a faded heart bombed on the concrete wall that separates two shops. “It’s yours, right? That’s the gold you always use to edge stuff.”
“Yep. Mine, from when I started out.” Right after Mum died, but I don’t mention that.
We cross the road, and when we reach the red door of her apartment, Libby unhooks her arm from my waist. “Well, this is me.” She looks at me. Our gaze, our smiles, it’s like they’re connected.
A woman’s voice comes from behind the door; the café next door is shut up, black. “That you, Libs?”
The lock releases and the door swings open. A woman with short, frizzy, orange curls steps out. Same eyes as Libby. “You smell like a brewery.” She looks Libby up and down, stops at her t-shirt.
“This is Dylan. He rescued me, fed me souvlaki and coffee.”
“Hi, Libby’s mum,” I say brightly, and extend my hand.
“Thank you for looking after Libby,” she says, ushering Libby through the door.
“No worries.” My eyes fix on Libby, and she grins.
Libby waves as her mum closes the door. I stare at the door like an idiot, listen as they climb the steps into their apartment, and wish I could do the night all over again.
I float back to my bike in Central Garden Square, ride down Main Street and take the underpass down into the train station. The screech of my brakes echoes through the tunnel as yellow dome lights flick on. A couple are asleep, leaning against the wall, next to them a pram with bags draped off both handles, the baby just visible under a mountain of blankets.
I stop next to a sign that says No sleeping, camping, or loitering and lean my bike against the white concrete wall.
I spray the outline of Libby’s face, mad big hair piled into a messy bun, a red pencil, Artistry etched into the non-pointed end. I spray her eyes green, and her hair streaked with bronze and gold, lips watermelon pink, with a sea of hearts that float out her mouth and down the side of the wall.
My phone beeps and my stomach drops when I see Libby’s name: Thanks for walking me home and for the card. And a picture of it pinned to her noticeboard surrounded by hand-drawn anatomy parts.
Glad U like it. Happy Birthday! PS epic anatomy drawings.
I wait for a reply, staring at my phone like an idiot. It beeps, and my heart repeats.
No words but an excessive number of smiley-face emojis. I know I’m smiling like an idiot.
On the wall, I spray two portraits, both exactly the same. Above one, I spray homeless, and above the other, not homeless. And inside both, in the exact same way, I fill in their anatomy, inspired by Libby – the arteries, veins and muscles in popping rainbow colours. Both with the biggest fattest pink heart. At the top, I write SAME SAME.
In reality, the heart of the homeless person is exploding.
I glide home, every cell in my body fired up with electricity. I could light up the city. Strike that – the universe.