9

On the way home, it begins to rain. I shelter in the town library. Inside, there are lots of soft lounges with distant views across the town. The perfect place for the homeless and schoolkids.

The librarian smiles at me as I walk in. I ask her if they’ve got books on Mondrian.

‘One of my favourite painters,’ she says. ‘Follow me.’

She’s wearing a black lacy dress, fishnet stockings and high heels.

‘Are you going to a party?’ I ask, pointing to her outfit.

‘I’ve just been to a funeral,’ she says. ‘I wore my best dress.’

Her name tag reads Tracey.

She leads me to a long row of hardcover glossy books. She scans the shelf, running her hand along each spine.

‘Do the Mondrian books send out an electric charge?’

‘All great art does.’ She hands me a thick coffee-table book with a Mondrian print on the cover.

‘Thanks, Tracey. Sorry about the funeral.’

‘There’s a wake tonight.’

I sit on a beanbag in a corner of the library and open the book. First thing I learn is his name is ‘Piet’, which I assume translates to ‘Pete’. An artist with a simple name. I spend an hour admiring his paintings and reading about his life in Paris, London and New York – cities a world away from here. I try to understand terms like ‘Neo-plasticism’ and ‘Cubism’.

I picture Mondrian in his grey suit, slicked-back hair and thin moustache sitting in a Paris cafe debating the meaning of Cubism before returning to his studio and splashing paint on a canvas, cursing the cat sitting on the window ledge, being so irritated by the cat not moving that he tosses a paintbrush at it. The cat hops down and Mondrian is left staring at the perfect vertical and horizontal lines of the window frame, wondering why art can’t be so easy. I reckon he tossed away his canvas and drew the straight lines of the window but instead of the world outside, he just drew a red block, followed by a yellow block and on and on until Cubism didn’t matter so much.

I read some more.

Mondrian’s paintings became so popular that the abstract style was transferred onto clothes, handbags, wall panels and even onto the sides of buses. I stare at a few of his paintings. I have no idea what they mean but I can’t help but like them. I close my eyes and picture myself back in Charlotte’s room. The blocks of blue, yellow, red and white all bordered by black lines.

Mondrian – Piet – and I approve.

On the way home, I pass Blake at the community basketball court dodging puddles and shooting hoops alone. I jump the fence and walk towards him. He tosses me the ball in a long, looping arc. I catch it, take a few bounces and fluke one from outside the three-point line.

Blake whistles. ‘You da man,’ he says.

‘We’re white boys, not homies, Blake,’ I deadpan.

He tosses a hook shot at the backboard while looking at me. It misses and I collect the rebound.

‘Sorry, mate,’ I say.

He nods and points to the top of the ring. That’s his way of suggesting a game of one on one. We sweat and struggle over a ball for the next ten minutes. Blake wins every rebound and racks up more points than either of us can keep count. Finally, I raise my hand to admit defeat.

‘You’ve convinced me,’ Blake says, as we sit in the shade of an oak tree.

‘Of what?’

‘You play like a white boy.’ He grins.

An ibis walks in the landscaped gardens, pecking in the dirt. It gives up searching and flies across the court to the overflowing rubbish bin for easier pickings.

‘You’ve been spending lots of time with Charlotte,’ Blake says.

‘She’s different.’

‘That don’t mean she’s better.’

The ibis shakes a packet and chips scatter on the concrete.

‘Have you heard from your dad recently?’ I ask.

‘He messaged me a smiley face on my birthday,’ Blake sneers. ‘He was useless here and he’s no different a thousand kilometres away.’

I reach for the basketball and run my fingers over the rippled surface. ‘Charlotte’s dad,’ I begin, digging my fingernails into the ball, ‘hits his wife.’

Blake doesn’t answer.

‘There are worse things than school,’ I add, remembering her line from the bluff.

After a long silence, Blake holds up two fingers. ‘One: we beat the shit out of him; two: we damage something he likes.’

‘We could call the cops.’

Blake shakes his head. ‘Rich blokes like him, they’ve got a way around the police.’

‘That’s what Charlotte said.’

I bounce the ball, thinking.

‘Okay, Mr Conservative,’ he says. ‘We’ll start with damage to property. And maybe a note.’

I shake my head.

‘Come on, a brick through his front window,’ Blake says. ‘It made me feel better after Dad pissed off to Queensland.’

‘Is violence your answer to everything?’

Blake shrugs and snatches the basketball from my hands, jumps to his feet and bounces it towards the court.

‘Hey,’ says Blake, ‘if I can pot one from here, you’ve got to do my Maths homework for a week.’

‘And what if you miss?’

‘I’ll do yours.’

‘I lose either way.’

He takes two confident bounces and launches a graceful arcing shot that lobs straight through the hoop without even touching the backboard. Blake looks at me.

‘Do you really trust my Maths?’ I ask.

He pots another basket in answer.

‘I’m ready when you are, mate,’ he says.

He’s not talking about homework.

Late on Tuesday afternoon, I sling the camera over my shoulder and walk across the highway to the town side, passing the hedgerows and neat gardens along Narrow Neck Road until I reach the path to Nellie’s Glen. Grevilleas and bottlebrush line the track as it winds through the national park to a lookout not far from where the four of us shared a joint.

I’ve timed it perfectly. A white doona of cloud spreads across the valley, framed by the canyon walls. The clouds sink into Megalong Valley, yet above me is a miracle blue sky. Mr Hartzig told us about this weather pattern in Science. He called it a temperature inversion where cold air fills the valley and the warm air above stops it rising. I was naive enough to ask him about it and he launched into a period-length monologue.

At the edge of the cliff, a low fence stops me from leaping on top of a cloud. It’s so thick I could fool myself it was possible. The ring of a bellbird calls through the mist.

I remove the lens cap and snap loads of photos, adjusting the focus to emphasise the clouds, or frame a single tree rising above the mist, or I crouch low and shoot through the wire fence so the connection between sky and cloud is more pronounced. I think of Piet Mondrian. He’d like this. Blue. White. Grey. The red canyon wall. Simple blocks of colour.

I remember coming here with Dad on Sunday evenings. It was his favourite spot after he’d lost a bundle on the races. He used to joke about the cliff edge and bad luck. We sat together on the rock and listened to the bellbirds. He told me the birds mated for life but lived in large groups and the other birds, not just the parents, looked after the young. He reckoned they were smarter than humans.

Tuesday was payday for Mum and Dad. Argument day. Dad called it a budget discussion. Mum’s wages paid the mortgage, bills and food; Dad’s money went on ‘investments’: pokies, horses, beer and cigarettes. He bought Mum a few bottles of rosé and hoped that was enough.

But no matter how much they argued, how tight it was, they took turns each week coming into my room and slipping pocket money into the top drawer. When Mum did it she’d lean over and kiss me on the forehead and say sorry, as if it wasn’t enough. Dad would just wink and tell me not to waste it on useless stuff like food.

I take one last photo, setting the camera to timer and balancing it on the rock as I stand in front of the fence. I stare into the lens and wait until the shutter clicks.

I check the result – the shadow of a tree crosses my forehead and behind me is a perfect cloud spread low.

I walk along the ridge path pushing through cobwebs strung between banksia bushes until I reach the road. I quicken my pace and make it to the print shop in Katoomba Street five minutes before closing. The woman checks her watch but lets me connect the camera to the self-serve machine. I print a simple 5 × 7 of my selfie with the cloud. When I’m paying for the photo, I borrow a pen and write the date on the back of the photo, followed by two kisses. I know just what to do with it, but it will have to wait for another day.

Wednesday is our weekly school assembly where Mr Pakula puts on a suit coat and offers his ‘State of the World’ address. Words like ‘dedication’, ‘commitment’ and ‘honesty’ are laced through a dull monologue about our futures. Our futures are to be zombies for another twenty minutes.

Today, he shortens his speech to introduce a trio of prominent community members – which is Pakula’s way of saying they’ve given us free stuff because the school is crumbling around our ears.

‘Please show your appreciation as I welcome our valued sponsors on stage,’ he announces.

A few teachers begin clapping too early and get the evil eye. That’ll teach them for dozing.

‘Please welcome Ms Sayers, manager of OfficeDeal in town,’ Mr Pakula says.

We all clap on cue as a lady in a dark blue dress walks on stage and receives a laminated certificate.

‘I bet she’ll treasure that,’ Blake says.

‘Next up is Mr Bursini, owner of Mountain Pizza on Katoomba Street.’ Mr Pakula leads the applause. Why are we being sponsored by the pizza shop? Does he deliver free pizzas to the staff at lunchtime? How does that help us?

Mr Bursini walks onstage carrying a large sign advertising his shop. He swaps it with Mr Pakula for the certificate. Poor old Pakula has no idea what to do with the sign. He leans it against the lectern.

‘Finally, please welcome Mr Walsh, Managing Director of Burns Fleming Walsh, stockbrokers in Sydney who’ve offered a sizeable cash donation to the school.’ Pakula glows as he mentions the word ‘cash’.

Charlotte’s dad walks onstage. He’s dressed in a dark suit and unbuttons the jacket before shaking hands with Pakula.

‘He’s hot,’ a girl behind me says.

I glance at Charlotte in the middle of my row. She’s not clapping. She’s not even looking at the stage. I don’t know why, but I begin an exaggerated coughing fit. It’s so loud, so I’ve-swallowed-a-fly-and-I’m-going-to-die dramatic, the applause fades quicker than it should.

Pakula looks at me and frowns.

Ms Childs, bless her, thinks I’m actually choking and rushes along the aisle to slap me on the back. I fake one more ear-splitting flurry as Ms Childs helps me stand, and I’m pleased to see Mr Pakula is so intent on grimacing at me, he’s left Mr Walsh with his hand outstretched, waiting to be given his plastic award. Death rays from everyone onstage.

I glance at Charlotte. She blows me a kiss.

Ms Childs helps me back into my seat.

Pakula taps the microphone to get our attention. ‘Another round of applause for Mr Walsh, Ms Sayers and Mr …’

He’s forgotten Mr Bursini’s name. No pizza for the principal! Pakula looks down at the lectern, hoping the name will magically appear. He mumbles into the microphone, expecting we’ll all accept that as the name of our local pizza dealer.

‘Bursini,’ someone calls from offstage.

‘Mr Bursini, Mountain Pizza,’ Mr Pakula adds, hoping one more free plug will save him.

We’re released from our assembly prison. I follow the hordes into the foyer, hoping to put as much space as possible between me and Pakula. Maybe I should cough a few times on exit? When I get to the rear door, a woman with dark hair and pale skin smiles at me. She looks like the woman in Charlotte’s family photo.

She is the woman in Charlotte’s photo, and she’s walking towards me. I cough into my hand.

‘How are you feeling, young man?’ she asks.

‘Much improved,’ I say. She looks just like Charlotte, only older. But I don’t think I’ll tell her that.

‘I enjoyed your performance very much,’ she says.

I can’t tell if she’s joking or not.

‘A coughing concerto,’ I say, remembering she teaches Charlotte piano.

She’s wearing a tight-fitting black skirt and a lemon-coloured blouse. Around her neck are pearls the colour of her carpet. She smells of expensive perfume.

‘I saw my daughter’s response,’ she says.

Oh, geez.

‘I think she was blowing a fly off her hand,’ I say.

‘Charlotte doesn’t have many friends,’ her mum says.

That’s because everyone thinks she’s stuck up.

I hope I didn’t just say that aloud.

‘Sometimes she can seem a little …’ She deliberately waits for me to finish her sentence.

One of us has to pop the pregnant pause.

‘… scared of flies,’ I answer.

She looks past me, her eyes clouding over. That’s my cue to leave. When I get to the door, I glance back and see Mr Walsh putting an arm around his wife.

Scared of flies.

Good one, Luke.

As I walk away, Blake jumps on my back, scaring the shit out of me.

‘Bloody hell, mate,’ I say.

Blake grins. ‘I felt like clapping,’ he says. ‘That was hilarious.’

I shrug.

‘I might try it next assembly,’ he adds. ‘Cough at every stupid thing Pakula says.’

‘He’s a dickhead,’ I say.

‘Who? Pakula or Charlotte’s dad?’

‘Charlotte tells me he buys the family expensive stuff, after … you know.’

‘Well then, he can afford a broken window or two.’

‘He drives an Audi.’

‘You’re shitting me!’ Blake smiles. ‘Then it’s decided. You just tell me when.’

He wraps his big arm around my shoulder and leads me to the canteen. Sausage rolls. He says it’s his shout.