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It’s the evening of prize-giving, and I race through town. A truck passes me, street cones on the back, neon orange signs with EVENT written in black. I cut through Garden Square; a crane has lifted a massive skull on top of the clock tower. Yellow, red, blue, purple and pink flowers cover its head. Sparkling diamantes circle its eyes. A banner with Día De Los Muertos – the Day of the Dead festival – hangs from the skull.
At graduation, they’ll announce the winners of the SOFA comp. The Day of the Dead is fitting. It all comes down to tonight. I have no other plan. I’ll get into SOFA and live the dream, or I won’t, and I’ll do something else. What, I have zero clue.
At the bottom of the clock tower is a band of guys in Mexican hats, white shirts tucked in, silver discs sown down the sides of their black pants. The guy playing the guitar leans into the microphone – “Testing, testing” – and plays a crazy-fast riff.
I bike down Main Street, congested with people dressed for the Day of the Dead festival and students from school heading to prize-giving.
I push the buzzer at the crossing; across the road, the event centre is lit up like a beehive. My gut rumbles, from both hunger and nerves.
When I reach Miss Reed, who’s wearing a vest with USHER, she engulfs me in a hug while directing the swarm through the door, beyond which is a sea of uniforms.
“You’re at the back.” She points to the far back row. “Once everyone’s in, I’ll come sit with you.” Since the whole Dad thing, she checks in a lot, brings me food, and it’s okay.
As I walk down the centre of the hall, gossip and laughter echo off the walls. I search the crowd for Libby. No sign of her. I take my seat, the entire school in front of me. The seat next to me is empty.
Miss Reed shuts the doors to the hall and, as far as I can see, Libby isn’t here yet. I check my watch. It’s already five minutes past when prize-giving was supposed to start.
A whoop of excitement rises from the other seniors; cheers, the excitement thick.
More whoops and hollers. I get it – the last day of school – for them a whole new adventure awaits, they have only good options to choose from.
Katie is two rows in front. I pull out my phone.
“Put that away.” Miss Reed takes the seat next to me.
I turn my back to her and text Katie: Libby?
I watch her, but she’s too busy chatting and the hall is too loud to hear her phone.
The stage lights flick on, and the lights over the audience dim.
“Good luck,” Miss Reed whispers. “Exciting!” She says it like she’s twelve, silently clapping her hands.
Mr Anderson takes the stage as the seniors and teachers in their gowns and hats fill the back-row seats. Cheers erupt from the rows in front. I spot Luka and crane my neck to see if Libby is with him; she’s not, but there’s an empty seat next to him.
Mr Anderson steps up to the microphone. “Good evening, students and families. Welcome to our awards ceremony and final assembly for this school year.” His voice booms through the hall, followed by hoots, cheers and whistles.
I fiddle with the two middle buttons on my shirt and straighten the folds of my cuffs. I look to Katie, but her focus is on the stage. I avert my attention to the double doors – the only entry to the prize-giving – now shut. My stomach churns.
Mr Anderson goes on about the year ending and the start of new beginnings. He welcomes the juniors on stage to perform a song from The Sound of Music: “The Hills are Alive,” butchered to death.
It finally ends, and the juniors line up and bow. Parents hold up their phones and click photos. I look at the door, willing Libby to walk in.
Mr Anderson takes the stage and hands out the junior awards.
My phone beeps, and nearly the entire row in front turns and glares.
“Turn it off,” Miss Reed whispers.
Why is she not here?
Mr Anderson announces the last junior award. As the recipient takes to the stage, there’s a crack of light from the hall door opening, and I spot Libby and Francesca. They duck down and sit with the juniors at the front. I’m relieved.
“And now we move on to the senior awards.” Mr Anderson goes through history and art history, geography ... “And that brings us to the sciences.”
The microphone squeals. I look to where I think Libby and her mum are sitting, but there are too many people to see.
“Top in chemistry ...”
Luka accepts his award. I can’t bring myself to clap, and I wonder if Libby is. But as I watch him receive his award, proud, I realise I’m being shallow. Maybe his douchebag-ness is a cover. Everyone’s battling something. I mean, he earned it. So I clap for Luka.
Miss Reed gives me a “what?” look.
“And the next three awards remarkably go to the same person.” I’m nervous for Libby; I know this means so much to her. “Top in biology, statistics, and physics ...” My leg jiggles, and I move to the edge of my seat. It takes an eternity for him to speak. I roll my fists down onto my thighs. “Top in biology, statistics, and physics is ... Libby Green.”
I let out, “Woohoo!” and clap furiously.
Francesca jumps up, pulls Libby up by the hand, and hugs her tight. As the crowd claps, I stand, woohoo for a second before too many faces stare, and sit back on my seat, pulled down by Miss Reed.
“She did it,” I say. “I knew she would.”
Libby walks on stage as Katie and I clap like idiots. Luka sits with slumped shoulders and glances back, giving me the stink eye. I brush it off.
“And Libby is off to medical school next year,” Mr Anderson announces. Libby takes the three certificates and returns to her seat.
“And now for the senior art awards.”
I dig my thumbnail into my thumb and try to break the skin.
Miss Reed turns to me and beams. “Good luck; I so want this for you.”
I want this for me. It could change everything. My heart races, my leg jiggles, faster and faster.
Mr Anderson says, “I’d like to introduce Pam from the SOFA.”
The words ring through me, vibrate every cell. Pam takes the stage and talks about how there were five hundred entries from all over the country submitted to the SOFA competition.
“First and third prizes have been awarded to students at your school. We’ll start with third prize.”
I ball my fists, scrunch my face, keep one eye closed, the other on the stage.
She opens an envelope and pulls out a card. Someone sniffs, someone else coughs. I peek out of the corner of my eye and catch Miss Reed watching me.
Silence. Third wouldn’t get the halls of residence, so it wouldn’t help me be un-homeless, but it’s still a place. Pam fumbles with opening the envelope. I wanna jump up and tear that thing open.
Pam puts her mouth to the speaker. “Winner of the third prize and a scholarship place, fees covered for a fine arts degree at SOFA, is ... Marie Wilson.”
My heart sinks. I look at my legs. I can’t look at Miss Reed or tilt my head in Libby’s direction. The chance of me winning third is higher than first. The hall is filled with clapping and cheers as Marie walks onstage and collects her prize. As she smiles, her proud parents click their phones, snapping pictures to mark the start of her new incredible life, photos they’ll proudly pull out later to show off their daughter’s not-sucking-at-life-ness. At least with no family here, there are fewer people for me to disappoint.
Marie walks off stage after thanking her supportive family. As she says “family,” the word vibrates me into reality. I’d love for Dad to have been here, but I know he’d never have shown up.
“And now for the first-place winner.”
Pam goes on about how the winner had exceeded expectations and is the first of his kind of talent to be awarded, that the skill and attention to detail are what blew them away.
“The winner of first prize, and a three-year scholarship including one year in the halls of residence is ...”
Miss Reed grabs my hand, holds it tight. I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for this bit to be over, jealous already of who has won, and I’m not even sure who that person is.
“And the winner is ...” Paper rustles. “Dylan Marshall.”
Miss Reed squeals; someone up front squeals. Miss Reed wraps her arms around me. I’m not sure why I’m not dancing around in circles, clapping furiously like everyone else. My heart pounds through my ears. I look towards the front and see Francesca and Libby standing up, clapping. I make eye contact with Libby, all the noise in the background a hum, and we smile at each other. And the electricity, the light, the colour is raging.
I’m genuinely lost for words. Instead of flustered excitement, I’m overcome with relief, like a hurricane has passed through, and now the sea is calm, flat, warm.
“Go, go – they’re waiting for you.” Miss Reed pushes me forward.
“... and we’d like Dylan to come up and say a few words, wherever you are.”
I walk down the aisle with a vibe of how I imagine those chilled-out Buddhist statues feel, zoned out, content.
I pass Katie. She mouths, Go you.
Even with a million eyes on me, right now, for the first time, I’m sure of what I want to do with my life, where I’m heading and what I need to do to get there: Art, and Libby. I walk up the steps on stage as images from my portfolio appear on the back wall. I know Libby’s watching. As I take the last step to Pam, the bomb appears of Libby at the train station with hearts floating out her mouth and down the side wall. I avoid looking at her. Part of me can’t wait to see her reaction; the other doesn’t want to ruin the moment, in case she’s not feeling it for me.
Pam whispers, “Love your work, Dylan. You deserve this; you’re a true artist.”
She hands me the certificate, and I can’t believe the words written on it: Winner of the SOFA Scholarship Competition, including one year in the halls of residence. Wherever Dad is, he’d have to be proud; at least I pretend he would have been. I know Mum would be.
Pam reads from her notes. “Dylan’s work was chosen because it showed excellent technique and mastery of his chosen medium, street art, but he does it with such honesty, integrity, and the professional care and skill of a true artist. And now, Dylan will say a few words.”
On the one hand, I know exactly what to say; on the other, there’s too many to thank. With too much to say, I don’t know where to begin. The school has uncovered my life, my true identity. I look back at another of my bombs projected on the wall – the tent, the toilet, Home bombed on the toilet block wall. My life lived homeless. They know the truth, and I don’t care. In a way, accepting my truth has set me free.
“I’d like to thank Miss Reed, Mr Campbell, and Libby. Without your help, it wouldn’t have been possible. Libby, thank you for everything.” I can’t believe I just said that in front of the entire school. There’s a second of silence, maybe two, and a whole bunch of “awwws.”
I look out to Libby. But the light shining onto the stage is too blinding, and I’m unable to see her face.
I end it there, and step off the stage, carrying my certificate. As I walk down the middle of the hall back to my seat, I pass where Libby and Francesca were sitting – their seats are empty. Miss Reed stands at the end of the row, and she swings her arms around me. Mr Anderson takes the stage, and the hall is back to quiet.
I slide into my seat, next to Miss Reed’s empty one. There’s a bunch of whispered “awwws” from down the hall, and I see Libby edging her way down the aisle as half the school turns to face us.
“We’ll wait till everybody is seated,” says Mr Anderson.
And there she is.
Libby sits next to me in Miss Reed’s seat. My heart motors. We’ve not yet looked at each other; both of us stare at the front stage, aware that people keep turning to look at us.
I watch the stage. She leans close. “So happy for you. Congrats.” She leans down to her bag and pulls out the crown and moustache on a stick that we made for the ball, and passes me the crown. The hall is silent. I hold the crown above my head. Libby grins, giggles, her spare hand over her mouth. She lifts the moustache above her lip, and my grin turns to laughter.
My phone vibrates, a message from Katie. You two are ridiculous; you know we can hear you down here, right?
I don’t care.
PS are we still on for the plan tonight?
I reply most definitely, I hope she likes it.
Katie: only one way to find out.
“And that concludes our ceremony.” Mr Anderson steps off the stage, followed by the teachers in single file, the school song playing. The hall lights flick on. There’s officially no more school, no reason for us to hang out, apart from the thing I’ve planned with Katie’s help, which could go wrong. I’m not sure if it’s winning the competition, but confidence might be my new thing.
I turn to Libby. “I was going to ask if –”
But Francesca interrupts. “Libby,” she says, “we’ve got to go, we have to pack.” She puts her phone to her ear. I realise she looks different – no makeup. “Sorry to interrupt, Dylan. Massive congrats, so deserved. But we have a flight to catch,” she finishes, her voice subdued.
Libby raises her hand in a half-hearted wave. “So ... I’ll be seeing ya then.”
And I watch them walk away.
Mr Campbell jumps in and shakes my hand, blocking my view of Libby.
“Thank you. I couldn’t have done it without all of you,” I say, my focus on Libby and Francesca.
Mr Campbell pats me on the back. “I think Francesca’s mum passed away last night, they’re bound for London tomorrow morning.”
“Oh.”
“So,” Mr Campbell says, “about that spare room of ours.” He looks at Miss Reed. “It’s yours if you want it, till the halls of residence open, but I’ll need some help in the shop to pay for your board. Turns out we’re swamped after someone redecorated.”
A grin spreads from one side of my face to the other.
“Deal.” A home and a scholarship in one night – whoop.
“We’re heading back now; you want a lift?” He digs into his pocket and pulls out a door key. Hands it to me. A freaking key to a house, as if this night could get better.
“Wow, thank you.”
He searches my face. “You’re all right, mate. Congratulations.”
I look over at Libby and Francesca as they walk out of the hall. “Mind if I come later? I’ve got something I need to do.”
Mr Campbell looks at me, then at Libby and back at me. “Righty, yes, I see, of course. You go celebrate.” He smiles and pats me on the back. “Not too late, okay?” He expects me to stay with them. That last comment might piss off some people, but he wants me to stay; he expects me back.
“Definitely.”
We follow the crowd out.
Up ahead, Libby stands at the lights with her arm around her mum. I want to call her back, tell her to come with me. But as the buzzer goes, I don’t follow them across. There’s a family crisis going on; Francesca’s upset. It’s not the right time.
I text Katie and Marv: It’s go time.
Marv: On it.
Katie: Fingers crossed, it’s the sweetest surprise, she’s gonna love it if I can get her there.
There’s always an if.