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When I wake, Dad isn’t here. I peek out of the tent and the Mitsi is gone again. At the hospital, I pushed him too far, said too much, and now he can’t face me. I’m a constant reminder of Mum and what he did. What if he doesn’t come back?
I search for my graph tab; it’s not on top of my bag next to my phone where I left it last night. Panic sets in; I tip the tent upside down, pull my sleeping bag inside out, forcing Bear to reluctantly move from her warm spot. I have to find it to get my assignment in. I re-check again, and again ... my graph tab is gone. Deep down I know Dad has taken it. I search through everything again. I need to find it to prove myself wrong – that Dad wouldn’t do something so stupid.
It’s gone. And I know Dad has taken it. I can’t believe I was feeling bad, that I was actually missing him. All the worry about what I said, about him not coming back, vanishes, and I’m split in two. Rage overtakes one side, sadness the other, that he would do this. But I have zero time to fume or smack walls, and I force the pressure down, cap it; it’s building below, about to boom. When it’ll take over and consume me – explode – I don’t know. It’s 8.10, and my assignment is due by nine. I’ve got to get gone.
It’s hard to ride when you’re mad as hell. Dad set me up. He asked me to come home last night so he could steal the graph tab. My chest tightens, pushing out what little respect I had for him. What remains has always been there, but it’s only now I see it clearly and can admit what I’ve always known – that he doesn’t give a crap about me. And for the first time I want to give up on him, and admit part of me hates him.
I race down the school drive and park my bike outside the library.
I plug my cell phone in at the computer station – 8.58 – and wait for my phone to do its start-up thing.
In the far corner, Katie and Libby flick through old fashion magazines. I don’t have time to be distracted. The fact that they are together and seem happy is good; I’m glad for Libby that they’ve worked things out.
Libby giggles. “Oh my, this one.” She holds up the magazine with the picture of an old-fashioned ball dress. “Do you think Luka would like it?”
Katie seems less enthusiastic. “I suppose.”
I log on to the computer, find my emails and open the essay I emailed to myself last night.
Libby says, “I just love it. I can’t wait for the ball; Luka’s got a limo.”
Gutted.
I force my focus on the assignment; I don’t have time to read it over or to obsess over Libby and how much she’s in love with Luka. I find the photo I took of the references and add the citation into the body of text and on the reference page. As I attach the file to an email to Mr Campbell and hit Send – the time 9.04 – I’m legit worried he’ll be pedantic over four minutes; it would be his style. I overhear Luka’s voice and sneak out of the library unseen.
I ditch graphics, walk across the backfield towards the beach, and sit against the toilet block. Without the graph tab and with no paper left in my art book, I can’t draw.
Winter sunshine soaks my face. A shitty white station wagon parks up, and I’m struck with déjà vu from when Libby and I thought we saw Katie and Mr Campbell. It’s the same car. I lean back, hidden by the toilet block, and peek around the corner. Through the back window I spot Luka and Katie.
My stomach rolls as he plants a kiss on her – not in a friend way, in a way-more-than-that kinda situation.
What the actual hell?
My mind’s a mess, imagining the moment Libby finds out, how her face will drop, how I’ll spot the second her heart falls apart. I should be fired up, want to smash Luka’s face and shout at Katie; but I know what it’s like to think someone loves you deep, and how it carves out your soul when you find out they don’t, till all you’re left with is empty nothingness. Libby will be broken.
I snap a picture of their conjoined heads playing tonsil hockey, then sit back against the wall, unable to process what I’ve seen. I take another look just to make sure I’m not seeing things. And it’s the same. I have to tell Libby.
My phone beeps, and if this moment could get any weirder, Libby’s name appears.
You still free to help with the ball banner on weds after school? Meet at the gallery?
I type in a reply and attach the picture, and sit there for ages staring at the screen without sending. I delete the image, and decide that kind of news shouldn’t be dropped in a text. It’s better if I’m there when I tell her.
Sure, see you later. And I add a cute GIF with a cat jumping away from a cucumber, because I know it will make her happy.
What if she doesn’t believe me? It’s not like I’ve got the best track record to go by, and they’re gonna deny it; it’s Luka, after all.
I wait for the traitors to leave as black snow clouds set in and the bitter wind stings my face. I check the weather forecast – and colossal snow is forecast for tonight. Before the snow sets in, the tent needs reinforcing. It won’t stand up to a huge fall. It would bury me and Bear alive.
I’m happy to ditch class to avoid seeing Libby, Luka and Katie, so I go back to the tent. I search the forest for long solid branches, prop up the tent’s middle, and reinforce the side poles by adding more sticks and hammering them further into the ground. The tent material is thin and old and no longer waterproof, and after a while, I realise it’s not the structure that I need to worry about; it’s that the canvas will tear under a heavy fall.
By the time I finish, the sun is nearly down and snow has started to fall. My phone rings. I immediately think it’s Dad, but Libby’s name pops up.
“Hello.”
“Hey, Dylan, it’s Libby.” Her voice is warm but has a quick, worried tone about it. “I’m delivering food to the library, and I’ve come across Jack. He’s pretty upset about something, but I can’t quite get what about. Are you around? He said only you can make it better.”
“Of course, I’m on my way.”
“Great, thanks, see you soon.”
I ride the track towards the library, distracted by thoughts of what Jack could be upset about and nervous about seeing Libby.
I ride through the library car park dusted in snow, and immediately see the free-food van. Libby sits next to Jack, the appropriate distance away from him. He hates to be touched.
My eyes immediately meet Libby’s.
“Thanks for coming.”
A gush of wanting to hug her overcomes me, and what I’ve discovered wants to explode out in a burst of uncoordinated worried words.
I lean my bike up against the library entrance; Jack follows, his arms wrapped around his chest, concealing something.
Libby lifts a stack of empty trays into the back of the van. “He won’t show me what it is.” She’s working solo tonight.
He rocks back and forward; I point to the seat, and we sit next to each other.
“Whatever it is, bud, it’s gonna be okay.”
He groans, rocks. “You’ll be mad, mad, mad, Dylan.” He tightens his grip around whatever it is he’s hidden under his jacket.
“Na, I promise Dylan won’t be mad.” I say it in third person; it calms him when he’s stressed, like it takes the focus off what or who he’s worried about.
“Want to show Libby first?”
He nods repetitively. And out of a box wrapped in happy birthday paper, he shows Libby my graph tab. And now it makes sense. I see the likeness – Dad’s dodgy friend Ginge. Same eyes, same hair.
I gaze at Libby. She looks confused. I’m not about to explain Jack has my already stolen graph tab as a birthday present.
The urge to snatch it from Jack and check all the work for my portfolio hasn’t been wiped is epic. That will freak him out; there’s a way, and it’s gotta be on his terms.
Jack opens the folder labelled SOFA PORTFOLIO and flicks through the images, confused. “Why, Dylan? Why?”
I’m not about to explain to him either that his dad stole his birthday present and in doing so unnecessarily upset him, or why I’m so relieved no folders have been wiped.
Libby has finished packing up the van and closes the back door. I frantically try to think of something that will make her stay longer, but I know she’ll have other places to visit. Now’s not the best time to tell her about Katie and Luka.
“Dylan, your hand – it’s bleeding.”
I look down at the specks of blood that have smeared on the graph-tab screen, which turns out to be the best thing to distract Jack, who’s squeamish. He thrusts the graph tab at me as he gets up and stands by the front doors of the library.
Libby jumps back into the van.
I can hear Jack moaning.
“I’m fine, buddy.”
Jack repeats, “Dylan needs a plaster, plaster, plaster.”
Libby reappears and sits next to me, opening a first aid box.
“Pass me your hand.” It’s a graze from cutting sticks.
She’s all smiles – we both are – and our eyes do that weird Lego connected thing. And I’m so distracted that she’s sitting so close, her leg almost touching mine.
I hold out my hand; she peels the back off a plaster and sticks it on my hand, then repeats, covering three scrapes.
“Done.” She beams at me, and I want to beam back, but I can’t; it’s like I’m pre-empting the sadness I know is coming her way when she finds out about Luka and Katie.
I take my hand away. “Thanks so much.”
“I’d better get going; need a lift home?”
“Nah, I’m good. I’ll hang out with Jack, make sure he’s okay.” I look back, but he’s gone. I’m guilty I’ve used him as an excuse, but there’s no way she’s seeing my home.
Libby jumps in the driver seat. “Think he walked back to the men’s night shelter; he hates blood.”
“He really does.”
“Sure you’ll be okay?”
“Yeah, I got some stuff to do,” I lie.
“Thanks again.”
I can’t think of anything else to say to extend the conversation naturally without sounding weird.
“See you at school – oh, and on Wednesday,” she says.
“Definitely.” I wave as she drives off, racked with guilt that I could have told her but didn’t. I should tell her about Luka and Katie. But awkward emo situations have never been my thing. Like my mind can’t string words together in case I say the wrong thing.
I settle on Wednesday; I’ll tell her then, maybe.