When I arrive home, Mum’s out. Big surprise. But Dad’s happy to see me and orders Chinese for dinner. Win.
DAD’S RUBBISH COOKING: AVOIDED.
I spend the evening procrastin-eating, then have a major yikes moment. Just one little, miniscule, barely-worth-bothering-with, teeny-tiny thing to finish: MY SCULPTURE.
I’m in Such. Deep. Crap.
My Art portfolio deadline looms and I’ve still got a gazillion tiny butterfly scales to paint. Oh … I’ve known about this date all term, all half-term break, all evening, yet it seemed a better use of time to dip mini spring rolls in sweet chilli sauce and watch Can You Dance? with Dad. I’m next to be voted off, for sure.
In my room, I flatten some cardboard boxes to protect the carpet. Lying on the floor, I set to work with my brush and inks on all those delicate butterfly wings.
I lose track of time. It was dark outside when I started; now it’s light, the birds are singing their cheery song. Half-dead and in pain, with crippled claw fingers from painting, I’m so not feeling chirpy.
I scan the colossal mess around me. The makeshift floor’s an Impressionist landscape – a Monet with purple streaks and puddles of yellow seeping into cracked, dried-up rivers of aquamarine.
The intense colours have kindled life; she practically hovers above the inky landscape, luminous, incandescent, ablaze. Two pairs of wings, frozen in graceful flight. Each wing covered in tiny scales, and hinged to her slender body.
I can’t believe I made it: Ornithoptera alexandrae, all hail the Queen of the Butterflies.
I did it. I am so freaking want-to-kill-myself-tired. But I. Did. It.
It’s got to be worth it. It has to be.
I might pass one AS-level at least.
Dad gives me a lift to school, to save me having to carry my sculpture. I arrive ridiculously early. Havelock’s not even in yet, so I head to the common room to wait.
I swallow a mouthful of purple tea that tastes of purple, with a purple aftertaste. It’s supposed to have a reviving effect. So far all it’s produced is the red-wine-lip-effect. At nine in the morning this is not a good look and I sit in the common room, resembling the corpse of Dita Von Teese: pale face, scarlet clown lips, bit scrawny. The sum of my AS-level Art portfolio sits in my lap: sketchbook, sculpture, studies. I yawn. My eyes well up.
I pick at my paint-stained nails. Jiggle my foot. Try to slow my breathing. If I don’t pass Art, then what have I got? I’ll be good at nothing. Good for nothing.
The radio is on. I hear: I could draw you under, let you drown in my depths. Fill your lungs with me, drink me in and never leave.
I pretend to read Closer magazine. I slouch, attempting to disappear. I used to be good at disappearing, but not any more. Not since I famously dated, then dumped, the hottest guy in school.
Someone finds me.
“Hey,” Isaac says, sitting down. “All right? I was hoping to see you today. Welcome back.”
“I’d like to say it’s good to be back but I managed to postpone finishing my coursework until last night. Rookie mistake.”
“That explains the dark circles under your eyes.”
“Oi!” I whack him on the arm.
“You got exams today?” he asks.
“No, just came to hand this in,” I say, pointing to the cardboard box on the table with kitchen cupboard scribbled on it in black marker.
“Are they low on condiments in the cafeteria or is this modern art? You didn’t seem too keen on that at the gallery.”
“No, silly, it’s in the box. The sculpture for Havelock’s class. It’s pretty much the best work I’ve done all year. Mainly because I’ve finished it, unlike my Psych, Chem, Biology or English Lit coursework. Hope it’s good enough, because it’s all I can do.”
“Let me see.”
“No!” I fend off his grasping hands.
“Come on!”
“No way,” I say, but Isaac gives me a look and then somehow I’m smiling and bending back the cardboard flaps and letting him peer in.
“Ohmygod. It’s amazing,” he blurts.
“Shut up.”
“You made this? Did you paint all those by hand?”
“No, I got my robot servant to do it. Of course I did it myself! I hear they frown upon cheating around here.”
“I don’t think you’ll have a problem passing Art.”
“We’ll see. Not sure about my other exams though.” I check my phone: 8.43 a.m.
“You’ll be fine. Come on. You’re the cleverest girl I know. You’ll ace your exams. Deep breath, Carla. Go show Havelock what you’re made of.”
I push open the door to A2, set down my portfolio and box in my usual place and carefully lift the sculpture out.
All the other sculptures look so professional – well, so arty, abstract, trying to say something more. Mine is so delicate. I fill in the form. Name. Candidate number…
“This is good, Carla. Really good. And just in time.” Havelock, clad in tan like a desert explorer, shuffles around, surveying my sculpture from all angles. He nods with satisfaction, or maybe relief, that I’ve actually turned in some coursework.
“Can I go now?” I ask.
Havelock gestures to the door. I take my bag and leave, catching myself wishing Isaac was standing outside waiting for me. He always seems to believe in me.