Letters to Leonardo (4 page)

“Yes, I was.” I lope off down the road. “You must have been too preoccupied with the gorgeous Tina Armstrong to notice.”

Troy takes off after me. “She is a bit distracting.”

“What are you doing after school tonight?”

Troy breathes hard as he tries to keep up. “What do you want to do?”

I wait for him to catch me. “Outdoor art.”

“Cool. I’m in.”

Everyone needs a best mate like Troy – up for anything. Doesn’t ask questions, just goes with it. We arrange to meet back at his house after school. I have to go home first to get my supplies.

I grab two mouthfuls of chocolate ice-cream and race out carrying a box of spray cans.

Troy’s sister Angie stares at me when I walk in the door, but she doesn’t say anything. Troy already has his gear stashed in his backpack. I’ve always gone for the box option – ever since a red can leaked and it looked like I’d decapitated a small animal in my pack.

Troy points out the door. “To the water tank.” He gallops down the driveway like a pretend medieval knight. I run after him. In spite of the fury that’s been bubbling and seething inside me since yesterday, Troy makes me laugh – always has.

The water tank’s at the top of Mather’s Hill. It’s a hard climb, especially carrying a cardboard box full of spray cans.

Troy nudges me with his pack. “So, how come you wagged?”

I’m still not ready to tell him.

I grip the box tighter and clamber onwards. “You shouldn’t have to go to school on your birthday.”

Troy punches me on the shoulder. “Yeah, I reckon you’re right.”

The water tank pokes out on the top of the hill. Apart from Mather’s Hill, Brabham is completely flat. When you stand on the hill, you see houses dotted everywhere like hundreds and thousands on a piece of fairy bread. The river runs through them like treacle. That’s our other favourite place to hang out – at the biggest waterhole on the river, where the rope swing used to be – the place where we chill out in summer.

We dump our paints on the ground about five metres from the water tank so we can get a look at our whole canvas.

“What are we doing here?” Troy has a yellow can in his hand.

“Painting.”

“Why?”

I want to tell him about Mum, but how do you introduce a subject like that out of the blue? Do you start with the first lie or the last one? How do you say that your dad has kept your mum from you all your life? How do you do it without crying?

I pick up a can and hold it against my face. It’s smooth and cool on my skin. I love the smell of paint – and being in control of the can. It’s hard to do fine work, but cans have impact. And that’s what I’m looking for.

I paint flames, licking up over the top of the concrete tank.

“Awesome,” says Troy.

I stand back to look. “Yeah, but it needs more detail.”

Troy picks up a can of green from my box and puts a sharper nozzle on it. He shows me how to etch around the orange with quick, firm strokes. It’s all in the can control and knowing which colour and nozzle to use. Now the flames look even more brilliant against the green.

With each stroke, a small piece of anger seeps out through my fingertips.

“So, who did you pick for your History assignment?” asks Troy. “Michelangelo?”

“Close, Leonardo da Vinci. What about you?”

Troy makes his eyes bulge and walks stiff-legged towards me. “I was thinking of Frankenstein.”

I back away. “He wasn’t a real person.”

Troy says in a deep robot-like voice, “How do you know?” He falls on the ground, laughing.

“Has Mrs D given it the okay?”

Troy winks at me. “No, but I’ll talk her into it.”

“Do you reckon she’ll go for Leonardo?”

Troy nods. “’Course she will. Leonardo’s perfect – he’s famous, real and dead.”

I laugh. “And totally awesome. I’ve been finding out all sorts of stuff about him.”

Troy picks up a can of paint, lid still on, and aims it at me. “Is that why you wagged yesterday – to do your homework? Tell me or I’ll shoot.”

Laughing, I get to my feet. I look at the painted water tank. It’s wild having such a huge canvas. “Wish we were around in Leo’s day?”

“No TVs or computers!”

“Yeah, I know. But it would have been cool to have a canvas as big as a ceiling or the whole wall of a building.”

Troy looks at my painted flames. “Always knew you had talent,” he says.

“Pity Dave doesn’t agree.” Just thinking about him paints my anger red, makes it burn bright again. I reach for the black can.

“What are you doing now?” Troy puts out a hand to stop me.

I sidestep him, shake the can and take off the lid.

Troy raises an eyebrow. “Don’t, Matt. Don’t wreck it.”

I lift the can. “Too late for that.” I point the nozzle and spray in massive letters across the flames,
Dave Hudson is a liar!
And stomp off.

Dear Leonardo
,

See how you have inspired me?

Truth is important in art, don’t you think?

Truth is important full stop
.

Matt

Nobody in this town (except Steve Bridges) seems to appreciate art.

At 7 pm I find Scott Reesborough’s email address on the Ashton High website.

At 7.05 Brabham’s head police officer, Constable Huggins, knocks on my front door, blasts me with garlic breath and asks me to “accompany him to the police station”. He could have said, “Come to Mars with me,” and I reckon I would have gone. Can’t make myself care about anything at the moment.

Brabham Police Station is like an old farmhouse – could have been the first building ever built in the town. The ancient wooden floors creak and sag when you walk on them. Now there’s a building that needs a paint job.

The first thing I notice inside the place is garlic. That’s what the inside of the cop car smells like. That’s the odour that drapes over PC Huggins like a cloak. It’s not just his breath. It oozes out of his skin like invisible sap.

Troy’s already at the police station, juggling mints, when I arrive. He’s getting pretty good; he can juggle three mints in one hand for about two minutes without dropping any. He tosses two up high, catches them in his mouth and crunches down hard.

We’re not allowed to speak with each other. I go to sit next to him, but another police officer steps in between us. “If you’ll come this way, Mr Hudson,” she says. I look around for Dave, then realise she’s actually talking to me. She shows me to an office with glass windows.

“Take a seat.” She pulls out a black chair for herself. I sit across the desk from her.

“Your friend confessed to the vandalism of the water tank,” she says, “but we think there’s more to it.”

At that moment PC Huggins walks in, breathing garlic all over us.

The female PC’s mobile phone rings and she goes out to take the call, leaving me and PC Huggins alone.

“It wasn’t Troy, it was me,” I say.

“Yes, we know. A witness saw you in action.” PC Huggins sits, glaring intently at me.

I slouch back in my chair. Good!

Dave’s Mazda grinds to a halt out the front of the police station. I’d recognise those squeaky bearings anywhere.

PC Huggins gets to his feet. “I’ll be back.”

“Okay, Arnie,” I mumble under my breath as the PC’s large blue butt disappears out the door.

The PC comes back with a scowl like a bear in a nest of bees. Dave follows him into the office.

Dave stands, one hand on his hip, the other resting on the table right next to me. “Why, Matt? What did you think you were doing?”

I’m so mad, I can’t even look at him. What was
I
doing?

Dave moves closer and puts his hand on my shoulder. I shrug it off.

“Why, mate?” he says.

I’m not one of his real estate clients to be smarmed by his “Honest Dave” impersonation. I push his arm away and look him fair and square in the face. “Why not?”

“Matt, what’s got into you? You’re fifteen now, I’d expect you to show a bit more maturity.”

“Oh, that’s right, I had a birthday this week, didn’t I?” I lean back in my chair so that the front legs come off the ground. He hates that.

He pushes the chair back down again. “I’m sorry I had to work and we haven’t got around to doing anything yet.”

“Yeah, Dave.”

Dave pulls out a chair and sits next to me. “Is that why you did this? You’re mad at me for working on your birthday?”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, right.”

“This is serious, Matt. These are the sorts of stupid pranks that can wreck a person’s life.”

“Mine’s stuffed already.”

“Matt!” PC Huggins and Dave say it in unison.

My life
is
stuffed. Everything I’ve ever thought to be true isn’t. I don’t reckon I’d have been any more shocked by that birthday card than if Dave had told me I’d been born a girl.

Dave looks smug. “People only use words like ‘stuffed’ because they’re not literate enough to think of a better way to express themselves.”

I’m sick of his crap. “Whatever.” I stand up, fling the chair against the wall.

“If that’s your attitude, I think you’d better wait outside while I speak with Constable Huggins,” Dave says.

“Good!” I slam the door behind me.

Troy has left the police station already. His parents must have come and got him. I wander the corridors, trying to block out the murmur of the PC and Dave talking. I don’t want to know. I study the noticeboards of all the “most wanted” and “missing” people. So where’s the poster of Zara Hudson? Why isn’t it hanging there too?

I smell the PC before I see him. “Your father and I have come to an agreement. We need to talk with you,” he says.

Dave sits with arms folded.

“I’m going to let you go with a warning, this time,” says the PC.

Big deal!

“Your father has agreed to pay to get the tank resprayed.”

“Why? My artwork’s better than what was there.”

The PC leans towards me. “And your artwork is a criminal offence.”

And what about lying to your kid for ten years? What sort of offence is that?

Dave stands. “We’ll be going then, Constable Huggins. Thanks for your understanding attitude. I’m sure this won’t happen again.”

Don’t bet on it.

We get home. As soon as we walk through the front door, Dave asks, “Why did you do it, Matt? When haven’t I been straight with you?”