by Davina Bell
‘I won’t,’ she says earnestly as I let her go. ‘I’ll always be four. Until I am five.’
‘True that,’ I say. ‘Wanna help me paint?’
‘Really?’ she asks.
‘Really,’ I say. ‘You got an art smock?’
‘In the dress-ups,’ she says, and choofs off to find it.
‘Meet me in the basement,’ I call.
There are four scenes in Catilda, so I’m going to try four different styles of painting. I don’t have any canvas that’s big enough, but I can use the back of some drop sheets that Mum put on the floor when she and Aunty Claire painted our ceilings. I find them in the garage and lug them into the basement, pushing back the big sofas and the ping-pong table so there’s room to lay them all out at once.
I’m not going to do those boring old black-and-white paintings that look like photos. These will be different – what Miss Ellershaw would call ‘conceptual’, which sort of means you have to think about them to really understand what they mean. From Cats, I’ll do the junkyard and the alleyway. From Matilda, I’ll do the school and Miss Honey’s house. I put the disco ball on for Pop to dance around to while I look at Insta and Pinterest, searching for inspiration, which is suddenly everywhere. Where was this on-fire feeling last week, when I was trying to do my end-of-term project and coming up with literally nothing? If I’d felt like this, I wouldn’t have ... never mind.
I sigh a big sigh – so big that Pop asks, ‘What’s wrong?’ I put my cheek in my hand and look at her spinning in her art smock as the disco-ball sparkles rotate all around her like a galaxy of tiny orbiting moons. ‘I made a bad choice,’ I tell her.
‘Why?’ Pop asks earnestly. ‘Were you tired? Were you hungry?’
I try not to smile. She’s clearly been paying attention to the Mum logic. If only life were as simple as tired + hungry = bad decisions. ‘I was scared,’ I say eventually. And as the words come out of my mouth, I realise with relief that they’re true. I’m not a terrible person. I was scared and I made a dumb choice.
Pop doesn’t ask ‘Of what?’ like I predict she will. Instead she says, ‘Are you still?’
‘A little,’ I admit. ‘But now I’m feeling a bit braver.’
Hmm. There could be something in this. Courage. Bravery. Brave artists. People who tried something new that people laughed at because it seemed ridiculous. Sort of like Dad with Raptor, actually.
The first one that comes to mind is Jackson Pollock, an artist who dripped paint over giant canvases. They looked like a big mess of dribbles and spots, but in a great way. That would be a good style for Matilda’s school – sort of chaotic and maybe a bit menacing.
For the alleyway, I want something confident, brash, and immediately I think of the artist Skye did a presentation on in a subject at school called Classic Modern: Yayoi Kusama. I could try to explain her, but seriously? Just google her. She is AMAZING. She makes giant pumpkins with dots on them. She puts dots on heaps of stuff, actually. She uses these great bold colours, and gives zero cares to what anyone thinks. Instead of a painted scene as a background, maybe I could just make a wall of papier-mache pumpkins? They could be like the brick wall of the alleyway – magical and fantastical. After all, it’s a musical about people wearing giant cat costumes. It’s already quite whacky. Papier-mache takes forever to dry so I make some prototypes with my old soccer balls, covering them in masking tape and Sharpie dots.
For Miss Honey’s house, I think about dark times, and how she’s had to really struggle against her insane, power-hungry aunt, (spoiler alert) Cat Trunchbull. And you know who else had to struggle? Vincent van Gogh. He was the painter who had so many troubles he cut off part of his ear. My favourite of his paintings is called The Starry Night, which is exactly what it sounds like – a big swirly sky of stars. I’ll put Miss Honey’s house in the corner, and make it small – actually, maybe I’ll represent it as a pot of honey – and the sky will be huge, speckled with stardust.
What’s left? The junkyard. Hmm. I could just collect bits of rubbish and stick them on a background, but that seems kind of lame. The Eco Worriers pick up all the rubbish around Sunnystream anyway, so it would take ages to find enough. I want something you wouldn’t automatically think of when you think ‘garbage’. I’m trying to work that out when my phone pings – a message from Belle. Have drawn up rehearsal schedule – on council website. How are sets going?
EPIC! I reply, relieved that it’s true. WILL SHOW YOU TOMOZ!!!!!
Pop comes over and snuggles next to me on the sofa. ‘What’s the opposite of garbage?’ I ask her.
‘Flowers,’ she says super confidently, and truly, I’m impressed.
Oh man, seriously? Georgia O’Keeffe’s close-ups of flowers are wild. The colours are soft, but the shapes are strong – it’s like she’s saying beauty can be strong too. A giant O’Keeffe flower could say that beauty can be found in even the ugliest places. Miss Ellershaw would go mad with happiness about this one.
Suddenly I’m a ball of creative fire – like a meteor crashing across the sky. I paint through dinner, through Pop’s Skype with Tally, through Gwynnie’s tantrum about washing her hair, through Rishi reading them Goodnight Stories for Rebel Girls. Suddenly it’s my bedtime but I just keep going. I cannot wait to show the others. We might really have a shot at the golden hat-trick. Instead of Tally up on stage, winning best actor, this year it could be me up there with a trophy in my hands. Is it bad that I’m also wishing Nana Marjorie is in the imaginary audience? Is it weird that even though she’s the meanest, I want her to think I’m the best? Confusing.
I fall into bed at midnight and, for the first time these holidays, I don’t worry about anything. I don’t fret about what I did at Clives. I don’t think about what Tally’s up to in NYC, or replay my convo with Nana Marjorie over and over in my head. I text Belle: If you’re awake, put your phone away. PS I love you!
Then I text the rest of the girls: Come to the clubhouse at 10am to have your minds BLOWN!!!
‘Are those boobs?’ Maisie asks incredulously as she looks at the wall made of masking-taped soccer balls that I’ve set up on the clubhouse stage.
This meeting is not quite going how I imagined. Sophia isn’t here, for starters, because she’s doing a one-on-one tap-dancing session with Pony Soprano to get him ready for his solo in the musical. And the others aren’t understanding my vision.
‘No, they’re giant eyeballs,’ says Belle. ‘With lots of pupils.’
‘They’re … interesting,’ says Matilda encouragingly.
I glare at the alleyway wall. ‘They’re pumpkins,’ I say. ‘Inspired by the work of Yayoi Kusama.’
‘Is that an anime person?’ asks Maisie as Mikie walks past.
‘Cool,’ he says, picking one up, but they’re stacked in a really specific way, and half the wall falls down. ‘Sorry, sorry!’ he cries. As he scrambles to pick them up, he accidentally kicks one and it flies right off the stage and into Judy, who’s passing round some donuts for the cast and crew. It hits her in the nose, and not just a little tap, either. Luckily Belle has a first-aid kit on hand with an auto-freezing ice pack.
Once we’ve dealt with that, I lay The Starry Night down on the floor. ‘Imagine it’s hanging up at the back of the stage,’ I say. ‘Obviously.’
‘But they visit Miss Honey’s house in the daytime. No teacher would be allowed to take their student home for a cup of tea at night,’ says Belle. ‘That’s creepy.’
‘It’s symbolic,’ I say. ‘Of dark times, and struggle.’
‘Where’s the house?’ asks Maisie.
‘The honey pot is the house,’ I say, pointing to the corner. OK, admittedly it’s pretty small. Like, tiny.
Everyone looks uncomfortable.
I am really relating to van Gogh right now. I’m so frustrated I could cut off my own ear.
It doesn’t get any better when I show the Jackson Pollock one of the schoolyard with the dripping paint.
‘Is that
the back?’ Maisie asks.
‘Nope,’ I say, trying hard to keep my voice light. ‘The front.’
‘Did you accidentally spill paint on it?’ she asks.
‘It’s a reference to Pollock, right? I love Pollock,’ says Matilda.
‘They’re really … original. And creative,’ says Belle. ‘It’s just not what we were expecting. Maybe you need more time to, uh, percolate your ideas.’
‘Well, what were you expecting?’ I ask. This feels way too familiar, this not-good-enough vibe. It’s like being back at Clives. Urgh.
‘I was expecting a wall that looks like a wall. That a cat would climb on,’ says Belle bluntly. ‘A house that looks like a house.’
‘These are interpretations of those things,’ I say, trying to be patient.
‘What’s an interpretation?’ asks Maisie. ‘Like, from French?’
‘No, that’s an interpreter – like, a language interpreter. An interpretation is your … it’s like your own specific take on something. Your point of view. How you see it.’
‘You see pumpkins as boobs?’ Maisie asks.
‘Look, I get that you’re trying to be innovative,’ says Belle, rubbing her eyes. ‘But I just don’t think this is the right time to be doing such big experiments with your art. We need things that people will recognise. A house. An alley. The audience isn’t supposed to be thinking about the backdrops. A musical isn’t about that. Could you just make it all a little more … straightforward?’
Suddenly I have a stomach-ache – the kind I get when I’m being told off. I’m not original enough for school, but I’m too creative for Sunnystream. Great.
There’s silence as I roll up the drop sheets, like no-one knows what to say to such a giant failure. Matilda starts to help me put the pumpkins back in the netball bag, but I just say, ‘Don’t.’
I pick it all up.
I turn and walk out the door, and nobody tries to stop me.
On the way back from putting all those stupid paintings in the dumpster down the side of Corner Park, I stop by Pony Soprano’s stable. Soph must have just dropped him back because he’s looking pretty sweaty and super pleased with himself.
I feed him a carrot. Then I take him out of his stall and lead him over to a gum tree – one of those tall ones with the smooth, apricot-coloured trunks. ‘Here, buddy,’ I tell him.
I sit and lean back against the tree, and he lies down and puts his head on my lap. I stroke his mane, pulling knots out with my fingers, and his warm, steady breathing calms me down.
My phone starts pinging and I guess it’s the others, sending me messages to see if I’m OK. I ignore them, feeling stupid for running off like that. After a while, Pony Soprano looks up at me, as if he’s saying, Well? Are you going to face up to what you just did, or not?
The answer is not. I pull my phone out of my pocket and switch it off. I swear Pony Soprano snorts his disapproval. ‘For that,’ I tell him, ‘I’m going to pick the muck out of your hooves.’ (Which is something he hates, FYI.) ‘Serves you right for being so judgey.’
I get home just as Pepper Peters arrives for her singing lesson.
‘Hiiii,’ she says, looking me up and down in that way she does so often – like she’s X-raying you to see if you’re cool enough to be bothered with. She peers carefully at the skirt I sewed from my dad’s eighties jeans with the giant pocket at the front. Then she smiles a fake smile. She’s wearing the green leather sneakers. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Come in,’ I say, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘Mum’s in the basement. Hey – umm, how did your audition go?’
‘I got a part!’ she says, beaming.
‘Truly?’ I ask. That’s confusing.
‘I’m the third tree,’ she says.
‘Congratulations,’ I say, trying not to laugh. Gwynnie has been the third tree many times. I totally know what that means.
‘FYI, my aunt’s arrived from New York and she’s –’
‘– a director on Broadway,’ I finish for her. ‘Yeah, yeah, we know.'
‘An award-winning one.’ She smirks as Mum calls her to the basement. ‘So, you know ... good luck.’
Seriously? What’s the point of even trying?
Soon Pepper’s donkey-screeches are floating up from the basement and they’re not brightening my mood. I don’t know what to do about the sets. So instead, I do what every great artist does when they’re stuck. I procrastinate. I reorganise the toy boxes in the playroom, try on about sixty of Tally’s outfits, which she’d kill me for if she knew (#sorrynotsorry), check to make sure nothing’s come in the post from Clives (nope), and eat two-thirds of a jar of pickles. I turn my phone back on and send the others a gif of a baby hedgehog, hoping they’ll know that means ‘sorry I ran off like that’. I look at Tally’s Instagram about 7000 times and wish I was with her in New York about 8000.
When you’re stuck, artistically speaking, you’re supposed to just draw something – a dot, a line, a scribble – and your ideas are meant to flow from there. I sit at my desk and draw on my arms with a Sharpie, wondering how old I would have to be for Mum and Dad to let me get a tattoo. Probably about forty-five. They wouldn’t even let Tally shave the side of her hair for a photo shoot last summer.
Then I think about Belle’s haircut, so chic and grown-up. I think about how good it would feel to do something bold and daring – how the scissors would feel as I closed them, biting into my hair. Like I was actually doing something. I think about Maggie Mair, who is this skater girl and teen movie director with a perfect fringe, straight across, that makes her look like an old-school bad-ass folk singer. I’m thinking about all that as I wander into the kitchen to get the scissors and then into the bathroom and shut the door …
Oh.
Here’s the thing about curly hair – truly curly, tiny-ringlet hair like mine. When you pull the top bits down over your face and cut it straight across with the kitchen scissors, it doesn’t sit there all nice and neatly in a straight, bad-ass, folk-singer fringe, like Maggie Mair’s. It springs up, like waving fingers doing jazz hands. I look in the mirror and it’s as if I have a cockatoo’s crest on top of my head. THE HORROR.
Someone knocks on the door. ‘DON’T COME IN!’ I cry, as I frantically try to flatten the fringe against my forehead. But the more I flatten it, the more it wants to flick up – like it’s deliberately disobeying me. I get hot with panic, and the fringe starts to look greasy. I splash water on it, and it goes frizzy, like I’ve stuck my fingers in an electrical socket. Could today get any worse?
I run into Tally’s room and rifle around on her dressing table until I find some bobby pins so I can pin the fringe back in a giant quiff. I put on one of her head wraps, which she’ll never let me borrow once she’s back from New York. I guess I could make some? I head to the dress-up box and pick out some old camo pants from when Tally did cadets, and a lime-green leotard that Maisie gave Gwynnie, which has fake diamonds along the neckline. I find the blue gingham dress Tally wore when she was Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, and a piece of red velvet that my friends and I used as a curtain when we put on circus shows in the basement, the summer Belle won tickets for us all to go to Cirque Du Soleil.
Soon I am picking them all apart and cutting and stitching. I don’t think about the fringe because it’s like I don’t have a body. Downstairs, doors open and shut and people come and go and there’s the smell of my mum’s tacos and the sound of the Raptor music, and Pop practising her one line for Catilda over and over, and then leaving for her rehearsal. But it’s like I’m hovering above it all, circling among the stars. It’s just the colours and the cloth, and the spirit in me that is flying.
New day = fresh with no mistakes in it, I post on my Instagram the next morning. Then I delete it and post the selfie I took yesterday with Pony Soprano. I add the caption Back on the horse. I tag the others, hoping they’ll get what I mean. Time to get painting again. But I’ll definitely need a break to eat something.
Lunch? I text Belle.
Can’t, she replies. Busy.
Sigh. As I put on the blue-and-white gingham head wrap, I hear the flap on the front door open and the thud of the mail on the doormat. I race to grab it, and …
GULP.
There’s a letter from Clives.
The envelope looks pretty official. Like the kind you’d send if you were going to tell parents that their kid had done something against the rules. Maybe even against the law.
‘Just going out for a bit,’ I call, picking it up and grabbing my coat from the hall closet.
‘Loles?’ calls Rishi from upstairs. ‘If you got some more peanut butter, you’d be my favourite sister.’
‘I literally heard you say that to Pop yesterday when she made you a Milo,’ I call back.
When I’ve been to the shop, I sit in the gazebo and pull out the letter. I peel back the top of the envelope really carefully so you can’t tell it’s been messed with. I take a deep breath and unfold it.
Dear Mr and Mrs Powell, it says.
Attached please find the account for Lola’s first semester at Clives, as well as a schedule of events, including the annual Clives Alive Family Trivia Night!
Then there’s a list of all the materials I’ll need next term (a loom, a ukulele, a pair of one-metre-long knitting needles and a Krups Egg Cooker). And that. Is. All.
I sink back into the wooden bench and clutch the letter to my chest. The relief slushes through me like a wave. Then I look at the letter again and read the account. HOLY MOLY. It’s worse than I thought. If I fail because of what I did last term and I have to repeat Studio Art, then I have just wasted a lot of money. A lot lot lot of money. My poor parents. I sink my head into my hands and close my eyes.
When I was in primary school, I was grounded all the time, but it was mostly for things like doing dangerous skateboarding tricks and riding my bike into a swimming pool and taking Tally’s stuff without asking. I used to look at teenagers and think, Oh, I’ll never do anything really BAD. But now I can see that nothing’s as clear as it used to be. Everything is complicated.