| |
“What the actual hell?”
My eyes flick open.
“Is that Dylan?”
Libby’s and Francesca’s faces appear over me, scowling. I bolt to my bag, pull on my jeans – correction, Libby’s dad’s jeans. I swoop up Bear and run for the door, avoiding all eye contact, my focus firmly on the way outta here, my heart panic-beating.
Both Francesca and Libby yell, “Dylan!”
I bolt through the back door and glide over the fence to my bike. Adrenaline rushes in my ears as they call after me. I’m too wired, too ashamed. I just want to be alone.
My phone rings and rings again. Then it beeps with messages I don’t want to see.
I ride to the beach, and me and Bear sit in the public toilets protected from the snowstorm still raging outside. I slide down the wall and sit on the ground, now understanding Dad’s compulsion to get off-his-face drunk, a perfect way to forget the world and everyone in it.
I pull out my phone. Three missed calls and texts from Libby. I can’t face them.
Bear wheezes and struggles to breathe, and this time it’s enough to shake me out of my sorry-for-myself coma. We stay in the toilet block; it’s too polar outside. The next safe, warm place is school – the last place I want to be, but we have nowhere else to go.
I take Bear with me, hidden in my school bag. As I walk down the corridor, she pokes her head out the top of my bag, making it impossible to go unnoticed. She lets out a wheeze followed by a sneeze, and a group of juniors stop in front of me. “Aww, she’s soooo cute.”
I pass Libby’s locker; my insides twist, and by the time I reach art class, my body is a mass of frazzled livewires. Katie and Luka will know it’s me who narked on them, and Libby won’t ever trust me again. Our friendship is ruined.
I open the art-room door and focus on my seat by the window, rather than on Libby, who’s at the bench seat on the opposite side of the room. Bear sneezes, and half the class crowds around. Luka sits alone upfront, his attention out the window, quiet; it’s completely unlike him.
I take Bear out of the bag and everyone pets her; she laps it up. I glance at Libby. She’s wearing headphones, but I know she can hear – they’re not plugged into her phone.
Katie arrives and takes the seat closest to the door.
Libby bats tears away from her cheeks, trying her best to hide it, and it kills me; the Libby spark has gone out.
I pull out my phone, my heart techno-style, and text: I’m really sorry, I shouldn’t have stayed in your gallery. Bear is sick and I was worried. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I am really sorry.
I watch her check her phone and will her to reply. Nothing.
Mr Campbell walks in, just as Bear is mid–sneezing fit.
“Mr Marshall, get rid of the dog.”
My focus is on Libby.
Luka pipes up, “Yeah, Dylan, you need to leave.”
And that’s it. “Really? You think it’s me who should be leaving? Wanna inform the class what a shit storm you caused?”
I don’t care that everyone is watching. I’ve got nothing left to care about; what more could go wrong? I’ve got nothing to lose.
“Whatever.” And he sulks into his seat and looks out the window.
Mr Campbell snaps, “Both of you, shut up or leave.”
Bear wheezes, which turns into a coughing fit. It’s getting worse. She needs the vet, and I have zero money.
“Leave the dog outside,” he says, as he writes a list on the board.
1 Grades for essay
2 Written references for art schools
Outside, snow falls sideways, pushed by the wind.
Half the class yells out, “Come on, sir, it’s freezing out.”
Bear wheezes and repeats the sneeze.
Mr Campbell draws an oval and writes: Add your name here if you need a written reference. “Don’t forget to add the name of the school or scholarship you are applying for so I can start working on them,” he says.
He turns to me. “That dog needs the vet.”
“Yes, sir.”
He ignores me and disappears into the art resource room.
I continue louder, “I’ll take her to the vet after class.” Not sure how I’ll find the money.
Mr Campbell comes back with a cardboard box and two old towels, sets the box next to me, folds the towels and places them in the box.
“Thank you so much, sir.” And I mean it, taken back at his kindness after the shit I’ve put him through. “I promise it won’t happen again.”
I slip Bear into the box and cover her in the towel; she shivers. I take my hoody off and lay it on top of her.
Every minute that passes, I find myself peering over at Libby, willing her to look. I check my phone to see if she’s replied to my message. Nothing.
Mr Campbell announces, “Your applications for SOFA, including your referee statement and complete portfolio, must be submitted by the twenty-sixth of next month.”
We’re given time to work on our portfolios. I move the pen around the paper, the class a buzz of activity. My mind is fuzzy; unable to concentrate.
The bell rings. Libby packs her things and is the first to leave.
I put Bear back down my top, zip up my jacket over her and return the box and towels to the resource room. Mr Campbell is at his desk; he flicks through a pile of student artwork. Under the sentence Put your name here if you need a reference for art school written on the whiteboard, I add my name, and SOFA in brackets, thinking about the mess I caused him. It’s a ballsy move. I figure I’ve got nothing to lose.
Mr Campbell clears his throat. “I’m sorry, I can’t be a referee for you, so you’ll have to find someone else. Given what’s happened, it’s for the best.”
I can’t bring myself to rub the letters of my name off; it’s admitting defeat.
“I’m sorry for the mess I caused.” I hate how it sounds like I’m apologising only to get the reference; I’m not. I am sorry. Like the black outline of the empty heart I bombed at Central Garden Square, see-through, empty, devoid of life and colour and fully deflated.
As I walk out of class, I spot Libby at the end of the corridor, ignoring Luka as she unloads a book from her locker and places it into her bag.
I slow my pace; Luka’s pleading. “I’m sorry. Please, say something. Let me come over, and we can talk.”
Bear sneezes as we edge past, and Libby looks my way.
“Dylan, I’ll give you a lift to the vet; it’ll have to be quick.” She abandons Luka mid-sentence, and we walk together down the hall. Heart-popping colours fill my insides.
“That’d be so great, thank you.”
Luka yells loud enough that people on distant planets could hear, “You know Dylan Marshall is homeless? He’s Xavier – the dumb-arse artist.” He belly laughs. “Caught him stealing deodorant, and he’s got newspaper curtains in the car he’s living in.” He’s hysterical. He waltzes over to Libby and stands in her way; he moves side to side, not letting her pass.
“Leave. Me. Alone. Like – forever.” She shouts it, but he’s too stupid to get it. He tries to grab her hand; Libby snatches it away. He tries again.
I pass my bag to Libby, grab a handful of Luka’s shirt, slam him hard into the lockers, drive my arm back and stop just before my fist slams into his guts. “She said leave her alone.”
His face drops.
I could carry on; I want to pummel the shit out of him, but he drops to the ground in a heap, and I can’t push it too far – oh, I want too. I could, but I’d waste precious time with Libby, and the way I see it, at least she’s talking to me.
I grab the bag off Libby, and we walk in silence to her van. Libby starts the engine.
“I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have stayed in the gallery; really, it was wrong and creepy, and I shouldn’t have.” I look right at her.
Bear coughs and wheezes, and Libby ruffles the fur on her head. “Y’all be alright, girl, we’ll get ya all fixed up.” Bear wiggles her way out of my bag and onto Libby’s lap. It’s adorable; Mum always said Bear was the best judge of character, and she wasn’t wrong.
Libby giggles. “She’s adorable.” She looks up at me for a split second before turning her focus to the windscreen. “Right, the vet.”
As we make it into town, Libby responds, “It was a bit creepy, but I understand why you did it.” No smile, dry and robotic.
I couldn’t wipe the smile if I tried. She’s talking to me; it’s a start.
I don’t have money for the vet. I figure Libby will drop me off, I’ll get up the guts to ask for free vet care, they’ll say no, and I’ll take Bear home and google what I can do, which will possibly involve a break-in at a chemist.
Outside the vet, Libby turns off the engine.
“I can’t thank you enough. I’m sorry, and I’ll finish the banner – all the ball stuff, if you still want help.” I realise I’m rambling, but I’m not sure when or if she’ll talk to me again.
I step out of the van and close the door, expecting her to drive off, but she gets out and follows me into the vet. I dread seeing her face when she realises she drove me here for nothing, that I could have told her at school, before she wasted petrol getting me here, that I have no intention of seeing the vet because I have zero money.
Inside, Libby greets the vet nurse. “Hey, Morag.”
“Libby, what can I do ya for?”
“Got any free consults left for the street dogs’ programme?”
Morag has the pinkest hair I’ve ever seen. “Not entirely sure, hold on. Take a seat, and I’ll get back to you.”
Libby and I sit next to each other in the waiting area. She gazes at Bear, sitting upright on my lap. I can tell she wants to hold her. I lift her onto Libby’s lap, and she wraps her arms around her as Bear licks her cheek.
“Aww. I never knew you had her. She’s the sweetest.”
Morag comes back. “We don’t, but Todd will do it anyway. It’s on the house.”
“I’ve got to get back to bio,” says Libby. “You know you’re intense, right?”
I’m processing the words, confused by what she means, and I want to question her when the vet nurse interrupts: “Come this way.”
Libby hands Bear to Morag, and I follow the nurse as Libby leaves, without a goodbye.
Libby was right; the vet doesn’t charge me, and it turns out Bear has mites up her nose, nothing serious. They let her stay there while I go back to school and fetch my bike so I can take her home.
By the time I haul food from the supermarket – no easy feat with every second person coming up to pat Bear – and ride back to the toilet block, it’s a freezer inside.
I unearth the tent from under the snow and shake it clean. It’s ripped, but I figure if I can set it up in the toilet block, it’ll be like an igloo – maybe a few degrees warmer. I clean the tent and lay it in the sun, and once it’s dry, drag it inside and set it up the best I can, tying the rips together, securing the string at the window locks to hold everything upright and in place. We climb in, and I tie the ripped door shut, plug gaps with random stuff to stop cool air coming in; it is warmer.
I call Dad. No answer. I text him: Dad, do you think you can come back? I miss you. No reply.
I text Libby: Thank you, and sorry, and I attach a pic of Bear.
She replies: I’m glad Bear is better, and it’s probably best we keep our distance. My head is a bit weird right now.
I was stupid to take Libby’s kindness with Bear to mean we were going to be okay. I know we were never together so it’s not a break-up. It just feels like one, and my soul is crumbling.
I email Mr Campbell: I am really sorry, is there anything I can do to help you reconsider being my referee for SOFA?
I get an immediate response: No, sorry.
And I feel as if the ground collapses and my insides freefall into a dark empty ocean; I don’t have the energy anymore to tread water and keep my head from sinking.
I climb out of the tent in search of food for Bear. As my light flicks to the wall, I notice a brick sticking out a bit from the rest. There’s something behind it. I pull the brick out and find, concealed in the gap, an entire bottle of rum and a baggy of weed.
I twist the top off and skull, and smoke Dad’s weed, until my eyes glaze over, and it’s knocked me out to perfection. The world is paused, my mind numb.