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It’s the day before the ball. I walk down the school hall, which is buzzing with ball talk. A banner hangs on the back wall: Get Your Gatsby On, One Day To Go.
Energy lingers in the hallway. As I walk into class and take my seat, something’s different. Music’s playing, and the walls are plastered in student artwork – everybody’s, not just the good stuff. Totally not Mr Campbell’s style.
A lady with grey hair waltzes out of the resource room, carrying a plate of muffins. “Help yourself,” she says, extending the plate to me. She reeks of kindness.
“Thank you.” I scoff the muffin; it’s still warm in the middle.
“I’m Mrs Gibbs. Nice to meet you, Dylan.” And she places two more muffins in front of me “for later.”
Libby slips in, and butterflies engulf my chest. She takes her seat on the other side of the room, alone, and plugs in her earphones. When Luka arrives, he sits next to her, and I can’t take my eyes away, watching for anything that gives me a hint of how she feels about him. Katie plops in the seat next to me and blocks my view.
Mrs Gibbs reintroduces herself to the class, and she’s immediately asked a ton of questions.
“The marking of portfolios will be done in conjunction with Mr Campbell, as it wouldn’t be fair considering he’s seen your progress and knows your portfolio projects.”
Dammit. I thought this could have worked in my favour.
Mrs Gibbs gives the class time to work on our portfolios. I glance over at Libby; she walks into the resource room with her bag and shuts the door. Luka bangs his head gently on the desk; he’s not winning. Not gonna lie; feels pretty good.
Katie turns to me. “Think you can convince Libby to speak to me?” Her voice is crumbly.
“I’m not sure I can convince her of anything.”
I spend the rest of class sketching on the new artist pad that Mrs Gibbs has kindly given me, and force myself to focus on coming up with ideas for the last three art pieces I need to complete my portfolio for SOFA.
When the bell rings, I keep working until the resource room door pops open and Libby walks out of class, without a glance or smile.
I catch up to her down the hall. “So, what time would you like me to come to the gallery and help?”
Luka is right behind us. Libby briefly looks at him, then back to me. “How long does it take for the paint to dry enough to move the banner?”
“A few hours at least, probably best to move it to school and paint it here.”
She avoids eye contact and continues to walk; Luka lags behind.
We reach the door to the science block, and she finally faces me. Electricity tingles my insides.
“Meet me at the gallery at lunch; that should give us time.”
“Done.” I grip the straps of my bag and smile, hoping she returns it. She does, but like she’s been wrung of energy, it’s faded, dull. I can’t tell if it’s because she doesn’t want to be around me, or it’s everything that’s gone on, or it’s Luka being annoying.
“Thanks, I really appreciate it,” she says.
For a second, we stare at each other. People pass; the background noise is blurred.
“Oh so, okay, I’ll be seeing you then,” I say, and she heads outside towards the science tower.
Luka follows her, and I look back to see if there’s any hint she’s warmed to him, but they disappear out of view.
I race back to the toilet block, let Bear out for a pee, and make sure she’s set up for the night. In the utility cupboard, I pull the suit off the hanger and roll up the pants, shirt, and jacket and place them into a plastic bag, then into my bag. I’ve got two hours till I need to be at the gallery.
I turn my attention to my portfolio for SOFA. I sit on the floor next to Bear, count the bombs good enough to be used for my application, and check the SOFA requirements: a minimum of ten pieces needed. I have seven. I pull out my sketchpad and force my focus on moving the pen around the paper, finishing the sketch I started in class.
It’s finally time to leave and I bike towards town. Balls are lame, but not gonna lie, I’m amped. As I ride, I dream up ridiculous hypothetical and unrealistic ways this ball will play out. Me and Libby dancing, her happy ... to be with me ... What the hell has happened to me?
One block away from the Red Gallery Café, my path is blocked by a flower delivery truck. I wait as it backs into the drive of a florist shop. The truck stops, and a guy pulls open the side, lifts buckets of flowers in every colour onto the ground and begins ferrying them inside. Libby would love these. Would a bunch of stolen blooms be considered cute and thoughtful, or stupid? I grab a random selection and slide them in my bag; the flowers poke out the top and I ride through town.
My phone rings; I stop in Central Garden Square.
“Hello?”
“This is Dr Kali from the ER department at Saint Clements Hospital.”