| |
Sunday, I spend the afternoon in the public library working on my assignment, which is due tomorrow. I spent the morning biking around to all the locations of public art and answering the questions on the assignment sheet, and I’ve just got the essay to do.
I scan the line of library art books, searching for the number that matches the ones on my list. Seeing as it’s Sunday and the school library doesn’t open at weekends, half the art class is here, but no Libby. I glance down the aisle of desks and take the last empty space. My phone beeps, and it’s as if she knew I was thinking about her. My insides tingle.
You working on your assignment? What’s with those obscure references? Trust Mr Campbell to make it hard, and a line of crying emojis.
I reply: Just started; they’re impossibly obscure, and I add the frazzled emoji.
The art books I need are out, but I find a few that I can use to make a start, and I begin to draft my essay.
Libby: Took me an hour just to find that last ref online, and a GIF of SpongeBob SquarePants’ brain exploding. Just a final read through, and I’m done and a GIF of an orang-utan doing a happy dance, which is hilarious.
I know I’m losing precious assignment writing time; I have under two hours to get those references.
I read through what I’ve written; the words glide past, their meaning lost, my focus gone.
Once I push Libby out of my mind, it doesn’t take long to write the first draft. It’s all there. All I need is the one obscure required reference.
I re-check the book stack to see if anyone has returned the book I need. At the library computer, I find the ecopy of the book, but you need money and a library card number, which requires a permanent address. I don’t have either.
My last resort is to look around the library for someone using the book, and beg. I find Katie on her graph tab with the book I need.
“Hey, mind if I borrow that after you?”
She looks up, eyes back to her graph tab; she’s mid-essay too. “Luka’s after me, then it’s yours. I’m slammed.” She looks desperate and whisper-shouts, “Why’d Mr Campbell have to use hard-to-get, obscure references?”
It was clever, like a treasure hunt; to get one reference, you had to read the previous. A clever, pain-in-the-arse plan that forces us to read all the articles.
“Yeah, sucks.” I need that book.
In a sarcastic tone, which I think is Katie’s attempt to sound like Mr Campbell, “A fail if it’s late and no re-sits.”
I notice the empty desk next to her and recognise Luka’s bag open on the seat. “Yep, sucks. Luka isn’t here. I only need a few minutes, max.”
Katie ignores my request as Luka appears behind me.
He places his hands on Katie’s shoulders. “Finished?”
“No, share the page with me.” And she pushes him away. “Dylan has the book after you.”
He looks me up and down and smirks. “Well, I need it so ...” He glances at the library clock. “Not a lot of time left; I’ll need half an hour.” Very convenient that the library shuts in exactly that amount of time.
He returns his focus to sharing the page with Katie.
I breathe in and try to relax my shoulders. “All I need is two minutes.” It comes out more direct than I intended. And the more he pretends I don’t exist, the more I want to grab the back of his top and push his face into the desk. I need that reference to pass art. My SOFA plan depends on it. “I’ll come back in five.”
He ignores me; I know he’s heard.
My phone beeps; Libby’s sent a GIF of Frida Kahlo moving her eyebrows in a Mexican wave, and a smirk wipes my face ... if Luka only knew. I reply with a Minion wearing a G-string, strutting, and we go back and forth for five minutes sending hilarious GIFs.
After twenty minutes, Luka closes the book, and Katie’s laughing at Luka’s tragic attempt at impersonating Mr Campbell.
“Looks like you’re finished.” I reach for the book.
Katie, still laughing, says, “Yeah, it’s yours.”
Luka snatches the book and shoves it in his bag, closing the zip. “Nope, I still need it.”
Katie says, her tone staunch, “Come on, you’re finished. Give it to him.”
“Na, I need to change a few things.” He glances at the library clock – five minutes till the library is due to close. “I’ll be done in five.”
I pick up his bag; my arms tense as he grabs the book back. I heave air, and it takes all my energy to not push my free fist into his smug face. “Give it,” I say with gritted teeth, and he laughs.
My jaw clenches as the librarian rushes over. “You boys, split up or get out.”
I push down the rage, swallow hard and walk away. Lucky she came, otherwise I’d have pushed him to the ground. I’ve been evicted from this library more times than I can remember, and I can’t risk any attention. As I reach the exit, the library’s closing message blares over the speaker.
I text Libby: Do you have a copy of that obscure book we need for the assignment?
I bike to the café at the petrol station, take a bench seat and plug my phone and graph tab into the power sockets – free power and Wi-Fi till they kick me out. I search the net for a pirated copy of that book; no luck. To get it you need a credit card.
Libby replies: No book, but login here, it will get you what you need. She attaches a link to an art-journal subscription with her email address and password.
Thank U!!!!! I add a GIF of a cute dog smiling with thank you, thank you, thank you. I add one emoji that sends hearts floating up the screen, fully got the feels for that, but I delete it before I hit Send.
Libby replies: All good with a GIF of a Yoda saying welcome, you are.
Once I’m on the website, it’s easy to access the reference. Just in case I’m asked to leave the café, I take screenshots of all the pages and passwords, and I’m about to insert the references within my essay when, as I predicted, the petrol café lady appears next to me.
“Are you going to make a purchase?”
“No, sorry.”
I don’t hang around for the lecture on using their power. I unplug my phone and graph tab and dump everything in my bag. I just need to swing by free Wi-Fi somewhere in the morning and email it to Mr Campbell before school.
The back wall of the petrol station is in full view of the expressway that heads out of town. I’m not sure why there’s perfect lighting, but it looks like an opportunity to me. The assignment was community art, after all. It’s rush hour, and cars zoom past on the freeway. I push an abandoned rusted ladder up to the wall. Taking up the entire back wall, I outline two people sitting back-to-back; one sits in a home, the other is homeless on the street. I add heart-shaped text bubbles above their heads, a question mark in hers, a heart in mine. At the top, I spray LOVE IS LOVE.
I spray Xavier in gold in the corner, take a picture with the graph tab, and add it to the file labelled SOFA PORTFOLIO.
My phone beeps, a message from Dad. I nearly drop my phone. I call him immediately, but he doesn’t pick up.
You comin hom tonighkljt
The spelling tells me he’s already bombed.
U okay? I’m coming home now, don’t go anywhere.
Dad: Justs nerd uoy to cime hime.
I can’t bike fast enough to tell him I’m sorry, to make things right.
Back at the tent, I lean my bike against the toilet block. Parked up next to the Mitsi is a technicolour Datsun, a shit-ton of spray wasted in an attempt to hide the rusted dents. The Datsun door creaks open. Ginge steps out in black jeans and a leather jacket.
“Gary here? He owes me,” he says in a smoke-a-pack-a-day voice.
Is this why Dad wanted me here? Is he hiding somewhere?
“Not here, sorry. Want me to pass on a message?”
I avoid looking at the tent.
“He owes me a package or my money.” Irritation edges his voice.
Yep, I was right. A deal has gone down, and Dad wants my help. I’ve bailed his arse out of too many sticky situations, and this feels too familiar.
“I’ll tell him when I see him.”
“I see.” He strides to his car and opens the door. “I’ll come back later to get what I need.” And he gets back in his car. The engine roars, splutters, and stalls.
He gets out and kicks the car tyre. “Piece of shit.”
I jump behind the vehicle, ready to do anything to get this guy gone. “I’ll push.”
I ready my hands below the back window; on the back seat are a box of beer and library books, the one on top an introduction to graphic design.
“Go,” he yells.
I turn my legs over as fast as I can, and push. The car pulls away and takes off down the road.
I dart to the tent. Dad’s passed out in my sleeping bag. There’s the stench of hard alcohol. He’ll never change. But he’s safe, and here. I tap his shoulders, which does nothing to wake him. The relief is so great, even though he’s asleep and off his face.
“I’m so sorry, Dad. I love ya, man. I shouldn’t have said those things at the hospital.” And I leave him to sleep.
I lie next to him and re-check that my bag has everything I need to get my assignment sorted for tomorrow: graph tab, alarm set, charger, and push my bag against the tent wall. I lay a towel over the ground and steal Bear’s blanket. She slips underneath and curls into my chest. For the first time since I last saw Dad, I fall asleep easily.