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My headache screams, Coffee! and my guts tell me never to touch Dad’s booze again. I’m on the border between wanting to spew and needing to spew – the epically worst way to feel when you’re about to board a bus for a school trip.
At school I push my bike into the rack.
Mr Campbell stands outside the school bus. “You’re late.” He ticks my name off a list he’s compiled on his phone. “Where is Katie?” he huffs.
Only the two seats at the front are empty. I scan the bus and spot Libby in the back row, her focus out the window. Luka sits next to her, talking at her.
Katie gets on the bus. I spot the moment she sees them sitting together, her gaze dropping, the small breath in. She slumps next to me.
Mr Campbell clears his throat. “I have an announcement. As of the end of next week, I will no longer be your art teacher. I have handed in my letter of resignation, and my last day is next Friday. You will have a relief teacher until a suitable replacement is found.”
The class fires a bunch of questions at once, the bus a commotion of “There’s no way they’ll find a teacher this close to the end of term.” “Where are you working?” “What’s happened?”
“For those applying to SOFA, you have the option of being your own referee. It’s a new system SOFA is trialling. The entry requirements remain the same; for some of you, that is the best option. Most of you should have received your references from me by now, those I said I was happy to do.”
Being your own referee ... that’s never going to work.
We pull into the SOFA car park, the doors swish open, and everyone piles out. I freeze as Libby walks past, Luka close behind. She looks at me for a nanosecond, ignoring Katie.
Katie waits until they’re out of earshot, then faces me. “He said he’ll do anything to get her back.” She holds up her phone and plays a video from Luka’s Facebook page; he’s playing guitar and singing a song called “I Want You Back, Libby.”
“Libby wouldn’t get back with him.” I’m not sure I believe my own words. “Not after everything.” And definitely not with that song.
Katie shrugs.
The SOFA auditorium is crammed with stalls, each representing a different discipline. Busloads of students are packed inside, and street artists spray the back wall in a live demo. These are my people, and this is my home.
I wade through the hordes of people to the SOFA admissions stall. At the opposite end of the hall, Libby stands in line at the pop-up café, Luka still at her side. She hands over her debit card to the café guy. Luka pushes in front and swipes his card first.
“How can I help?” asks a guy in black-rimmed glasses, standing at an admin desk, a laptop in front of him.
I ask, “Is it true that you can be your own referee when applying for the undergraduate scholarship programme?”
The guy chuckles, then grimaces. “Technically, yes, but I wouldn’t. It’s admission suicide.” He passes me a pamphlet: How to Maximise Your Chances of Admission.
“They only allow the self-reference thing because the school got done for not being inclusive enough – people complained.” He rolls his eyes. “SOFA’s way to deal with the bad publicity, stupid if you ask me.”
I open the pamphlet. Complete portfolio. Nail interview. Provide a written reference from someone who can vouch for your work and work ethic (recommended). Alternatively, you can provide a self-written reference. And it lists some helpful hints and tips.
“You’ve got a month.” He points to the date. “Application’s due four weeks from today.” He speaks in a monotone, and something tells me he’s been asked that question a million times.
“Here.” He passes me two free coffee vouchers and holds out a jar of lollipops, and I take two yellow ones with smiley faces.
I crane my neck towards the pop-up café. Luka and Libby wait by the cart for their coffee, deep in conversation. Libby’s arms are folded, and neither of them are smiling. Luka holds his hands together, like he’s praying or begging, when Libby yells something at him. I wish I could hear. She paces out of the hall without her coffee, leaving Luka alone.
It’s a dumb idea, but I follow her outside, past the administration block, an almost entirely glass building with a café attached. Taking up the entire side of the café window are the words School of Fine Arts in black, and a tropical forest of colourful vinyl-cut flowers. The rich aroma of coffee fills the courtyard next to the café.
I spot Libby by herself, sitting on the grass knoll; she blends in with the other students. Some chat in groups, others draw. I go inside and order two coffees.
I stand in front of her and hold out the takeaway cup.
“For me?”
I nod and turn to leave; she did tell me she wants space, and I don’t want to annoy her.
“Thank you.”
I’m a few paces away, wishing I could sit next to her and hang, when she says, “Dylan,” and I turn. “How’s Bear?” She pats the ground next to her, and my chest tingles.
I sit next to her. “She’s heaps better. Thanks again for your help.”
“No problem.” Her tone is downcast, the Libbyness drained.
She passes me one side of her earphones, and we lean against the café wall and listen to her terrible selection of sappy love jams and sip coffee with the winter sun all up in our faces. Hanging with her at SOFA, it’s living the dream right here.
Every now and then I look at her, and she half smiles – the fake kind, to mask how all the glow inside has gone, and she needs some space from the world right now. And I get it; it blows my mind that she’s happy to sit in silence with me.
The good vibes are broken when Mr Campbell yells at us that the bus is ready to move, and we’re herded back onto it. Libby bumps into an old friend and hangs back.
As soon as I take my seat, Katie sits next to me again. “How can I get her to be friends with me again? She hates me.”
How about not hooking up with her boyfriend? Instead, I say, “Apologise.” It’s lame, but it’s a good start.
Libby walks past to her seat and ignores us.
“She won’t return my texts or calls; she won’t even look at me. If I go into the gallery, she leaves.”
“Show her how sorry you are.”
“How?” She peers at me, a shell of someone who’s lost the most loyal best friend they ever had. I can see she regrets what she’s done.
“Don’t give up, and try harder.”
She glances over her shoulder at Luka. “I hate that I still love him. He’s gonna get her back.” Her voice cracks, and she bats tears from her cheek. Crying girls are awkward, and I never know what to do in these situations. I pass her a lollipop. It’s lame, but it’s all I got.
“Even if he chose me, I’d give it all up to have my best friend back.”
“Tell her that.”
I’ve dished out some stellar advice, but I’m a complete hypocrite. I have no idea how to execute anything like that myself. I squash thoughts of Dad, of how I shouldn’t have said the things I did.
“You know it’s just her on the ball committee now? She kicked us out.”
With the ball in four days, I bet she’s under the pump to pull it off. I’m gonna find a way to help her, if she lets me – not that I’ll tell Katie that.
As soon as the bus stops, Libby races past Katie and me, ignoring us, and runs towards the science block.
I hang out in the library and charge my phone; I call Dad and get an automated message: This number is no longer connected to our provider.
The only connection I had with him is gone.