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Snow falls all Tuesday and I’m gutted school is closed for the day. Me and Bear are living in an actual freaking freezer. It’s impossible to sleep, even with every item of clothing wrapped around us inside the sleeping bag, with the top pulled tight over our heads, leaving a gap just big enough for air. The cold grips my core and I’m unable to feel my fingers, toes and nose.
Wednesday morning I refresh the school webpage, relieved to see, in red: “Snow update: school is open.” I shine my phone torch at the tent roof; it’s sunken further since my last check. Outside I use a branch to sweep the snow off the tent roof and leave the door ajar. Once the sun’s up, it will be the warmest spot for Bear to sleep while I’m with Libby helping with the ball stuff.
The day drags; Libby wasn’t in art. After school I ride against the wind up Main Street, careful not to slip in the snow. As I walk into the café, I’m greeted by a wall of warm air and Libby making coffee over the heavy hum of afternoon chatter.
“You look frozen! What would ya like?”
You, as my girlfriend. Luka kissed Katie.
I’m assuming she’s talking about coffee. “Flat white, thanks.” I don’t know what they taste like, but I’ve heard other people order them.
Libby pours three coffees in keep cups and passes one to the lady named Jill, apparently, and one to me. Then she picks up a bunch of food in paper bags. I place both my hands around the cup and soak in the heat.
“Come this way.” Libby leads me to the red door. She’s wearing a long, oversized knitted cardigan.
We walk up a steep staircase to her apartment, where Libby unlocks another red door.
The back wall of the lounge and kitchen is a canvas of giant windows with a view over the snow-covered city. Plants hang everywhere. There’s no TV; a brown leather sofa covered in cushions faces a wall jammed with vibrant artwork and a messy, tightly packed bookshelf. It reeks of home.
I follow Libby down the hall, the walls covered in mismatched family photos, the window at the end giving a view of overhanging trees dusted in white, and the ocean in the distance.
We go into Libby’s room.
“Take a seat.” She points to the bed. My nerves twist, but I’m made better by her room looking how I imagined – art everywhere, pinned to the wall, a giant poster of Frida Kahlo, intricate detailed anatomical portraits in overlapping shades of popping colours.
I sit on the edge of Libby’s unmade bed. Her desk in the corner is jammed with jars of black pens, coloured pencils, and stacks of paper. Pinned to a corkboard are detailed drawings of organs, of a skeleton. Front and centre, the card I gave her is tacked next to a photo of her and Luka. And I’m reminded of what I need to tell her.
Tell her.
Libby opens her wardrobe and throws me a top. “Yours – thanks heaps for letting me borrow it.” I can smell the washing powder.
“No worries.” I stick it in my bag.
With Libby, there’s never any awkward quiet spots; she chatters about how the ball plans are coming along, how it’s hard to find people who have enough time, especially since Katie and Luka have so much study and after-school commitments.
I nod. I have feelings on that topic.
“So, we are waiting for the others, and then we can start our official ball meeting.”
I’m gutted. I hadn’t figured there would be others.
Libby taps the iPad on her desk, and the room fills with music. She sits next to me, effortlessly, casually, like she’s not nervous at all. I sip my coffee; the warm frothy milk calms my stomach, which is screaming at me for food.
I glance at her artwork on the wall. “You know you could go to art school.”
Libby beams. “I thought about it, but I’ve wanted to be a doctor since forever.”
Tell her. Just say it.
She hums to the song and holds up her phone, showing me the playlist labelled Ball.
“What do ya think?”
A knock comes from downstairs; she disappears for a second and comes back with Luka and Katie. My insides scream. I could tell her now, get it over and done with.
There’s a round of awkward “heys.” I stare at Luka, back at Katie. Libby blissfully chats about the ball, unaware of what two of her most important people are doing.
We follow Libby into one of the smaller galleries. “This is the paint and the canvas that Mum said is ours.”
I inspect the sprays and paint: they’re all used – open cans and pots – but they’re the best quality.
“It’s great you can do it for us,” Katie says.
I can’t even look at her. I focus on the art supplies and imagine how big the rolled canvas pushed up against the wall is. The length of it alone would cover the back wall of the school hall.
Libby stands next to me. “Mum said you can have any of the leftover supplies.” It’s hundreds if not thousands of dollars’ worth of paint.
“Thank you, that’s incredible.”
She hands me a box of test pots. “This is a subset of all the colours.”
Luka playfully pokes her side, and I’m not sure how much of that I can take before I knock him over. Libby ignores him, and he pouts. I almost feel sorry for Katie, who’s by the door, eyes on her phone.
I pull out the graph tab, flick to my drawings of the banner, and unroll the massive canvas.
“That’s perfect.” Libby breaks away from Luka, pulls the gold, black, silver, and bronze from the box and stands next to me, pointing to where each colour could go. “Gold here, what do you think?”
As Luka drapes his arm over Libby’s back something animalistic roars inside me, a caveman urge to protect her, rip her away from being touched by him.
Katie’s one foot out the door. “You guys have got this. I’m going to head off.”
Luka drops his arm off Libby like a boulder off a cliff.
I should say it now. I’m stuck with the thought that Libby might not believe me. Who’s she going to believe? Her best friend since primary school and boyfriend, or some homeless dude with criminal convictions?
Libby hugs Katie. “You okay?”
Katie shrugs. “Just tired.” She gathers the heart-shaped locket that hangs from Libby’s neck. “Is this new? It’s so pretty.” She opens the locket. “Oh, it’s a picture of you and Luka.” She smiles, but her eyes say broken.
“Luka gave it to me this morning.”
Katie steps out the door. “Oh, nice. I’ve got a headache, so ...” And she’s gone, leaving Luka silent in the corner, his focus at the door, and I swear by his downcast frown that he wants to go after Katie.
Libby points to the areas on the banner where she’s written in pencil what colour could go where. “I hope that’s okay, Dylan – just ideas.”
“Epic.” I agree with all her colour decisions, especially the gold that rims all the letters of the Gatsby.
Luka stands behind us. “I could have done that without Dylan.” Like I’m not in the room. My insides snarl.
Libby grins. “Trust me, it’ll be awesome; it’ll blow everyone away.”
“Whatever, actually, who cares? Are we going to this movie or what, Libs?”
Luka wraps his arms around Libby, and I’m near ready to pounce on him. I can’t hold it in any longer.
“Think I saw you at the beach the other day.” It’s directed at Luka, and his jaw falls to the ground. Yeah, buddy, you heard right.
He clutches Libby tighter. “Let’s go. We’ll miss the movie, and I already got us tickets.” He drags her by the hand towards the door.
She turns to face me. “I’m so sorry, I completely forgot.”
“It’s all good. I can stay and paint if you like, tick one of those things off ya list.”
She grabs my hand, takes the pen from the top pocket of her dungarees and writes six numbers. “For the security system.” Our eyes connect for a second longer than necessary, and boom, electricity surges between us.
“I can’t thank you enough. Are you free the same time tomorrow? We can finish what you start.” And I don’t know who lets go first, but our hands drop, and Luka tugs her out the door.
As they walk down the hall, I hear Luka say, “Should you really trust him with the alarm code?”
At first, I can’t concentrate, but eventually I find my groove and finish the pencil outlines. I’m alone in her gallery. She trusted me with the lock to the whole place. As I work, I hear the café staff leave, and Francesca yell, “Going to the shop, see you for dinner upstairs.”
Francesca walks past, and I hold my breath, but she doesn’t look in the room. She thinks Libby’s in here. I’ve got nothing to hide, I’m just a hardcore avoider of all things awkward. What will she say if she learns Libby has entrusted me with the password to the entire café?
The van engine starts and fades.
I continue to work, turn the radio on, and find the SOFA radio station. Chill beats sing from the tinny radio. I finish the outline of Gatsby; it takes me ages to get the font style consistent across all the letters.
I flip open the white paint and block in the basecoat for each letter. As it dries, I eat the leftover food that Libby brought in. Like a king, I place the food on a plate at the table stacked with boxes of spray paint, eat half the vegetarian filo pie and apple cake and save the rest for Dad, on the miniscule chance he’ll show up.
I text him: I have food, where are you? Please come back. I know it’s pointless.
I watch the snowfall through the window. It looks idyllic from the inside, but outside is another story. I should get going soon. Bear will need my warmth in the sleeping bag.
After I’ve eaten, I wash the cup and plate and stack them on the kitchenette. But instead of leaving, I walk around the gallery, soak in the art like I haven’t seen it before.
Libby probably would expect me to be gone by now.
I lay the next layer of basecoat, gliding the paintbrush slow and steady, avoiding the inevitable – that I will have to leave and face the frigid cold.
The announcer on the radio says, “Hope you’re hunkered down. It’s cold out.”
At the far end of the gallery, a bunch of woollen blankets are draped between canvases stacked against each other. Warm blankets. In a warm place, out of the snow. I can’t believe I’m stupid enough to contemplate sleeping here. If Libby found out, it would break her trust.
I think of Bear and how I can’t stand the thought of another sleepless night frozen, and before I know it, I text Marv: Mind babysitting Bear for the night? And I send him directions to the tent.
He replies immediately: Yeah, man, I’ll pick her up on my break, she can hang with me at work and I’ll take her home after. You alright bro?
I can’t believe I’m doing this. Every part of me screams this is a dumb idea, but I can’t bring myself to leave. I’ve seen café lights on here as early as five a.m. I’ll be gone before then.
I set my alarm and turn off the light. What am I doing? No matter how much I want to make the right decision and leave, the warmth wins. I slide the blankets off the canvases. In the corner out of sight from the door, I fold them in half and form a mattress, roll another into a pillow, and lay on top, pulling three blankets over me. Zero worry the roof will cave in, or that I’ll freeze to death, or that someone will steal my stuff while a party rages around me. I’m safe. And like all the tiredness and cold has caught up with me, I can’t keep my eyes open any longer.