“Oh no!” I’m so horrified at what I see I blurt my thoughts out loud.
Rudy’s picture is still there but someone has sprayed red paint all over it. The girl’s face is now completely obscured. You can no longer see her look of fierce defiance. You can no longer see the lightning bolt tattoo. They’ve sprayed all over my poem too. The only word that’s still visible is “RISING” but streaks of red paint are trickling down it like blood. They’ve even covered our tag with what I assume is one of their own.
I look away, out at the sea. Why would anyone do this? Then I think of Rudy. How’s she going to feel when she sees it? How am I going to tell her what’s happened? I decide to send her a message.
Hi, I’ve got some bad news :(
Almost instantly my phone starts ringing. It’s Rudy.
“Hey,” I say.
“What’s happened?”
“Someone’s painted over the picture. They’ve sprayed all over it in red.”
Rudy is silent. I hear the clatter of crockery in the background and remember that she works in the café on a Monday morning before school.
“They sprayed all over it?” She sounds weirdly brisk and efficient, like having her art ruined is a daily occurrence.
“Yes. And they wrote something over your – our – tag.”
“What did they write?”
I look at the huge red letters obscuring FIERCE INK.
“I think it’s another tag. It says ‘LADZ’. L – A - D - Z.”
There’s silence from the other end of the phone, broken only by the chink of cutlery.
“Yes, I know how to spell it,” Rudy says, quietly.
RUDY
I stand in front of my picture, fighting the urge to scream. Although I got Clementine to send me a photo of it, it didn’t prepare me for how I’d feel seeing it for real. I don’t think anything could. I’d been prepared for the fact that none of my pieces of street art would last forever; that eventually they’d be worn away by the weather or replaced – but I’d not been prepared for this. A seagull screeches high above me, wrenching me from my daze. I look at how the paint has been concentrated in certain places – completely obscuring Lightning Girl’s face and the words of the poem. And of course, the tag. I look at the huge letters now covering FIERCE INK.
LADZ
I don’t get how he found it so quickly. Unless… I suddenly remember the young guy who walked past us last night. Could he have been LADZ? I trawl my memory for clues. He was carrying a bag – a large sports bag. Could he have been out last night doing a new painting? My stomach churns with a sickening mix of anger and dread. Whether it was him or not, the fact is, LADZ has found and ruined my picture. He must have recognized my FIERCE tag from the pocket of the shorts I sprayed on his stupid butt cheeks. But at least I added to his picture. At least I didn’t destroy it. And I only did it because I found it offensive. There was nothing offensive about my picture of Lightning Girl. It was empowering. And now it’s ruined. Disappointment crushes me. I’d felt so happy making that picture, visualizing myself climbing up my own ladder to the stars. But what was the point? Someone’s always going to be waiting to knock me back down again. I turn and trudge away, up the steps.
I get to school late again. Not that I care. The worst that can happen has already happened. This time, when I come into art class, Ms O’Toole doesn’t smile at me.
“This isn’t on, Rudy,” she says, coming over as I take my seat at the table. “You can’t keep being late for lessons.”
“I’m sorry,” I mutter. Although, truthfully, the only thing I’m sorry about is that I have to be here at all.
“Well, maybe a detention will help you to get better at your time-keeping.”
“What?” I stare at her. A stunned silence falls upon the classroom. Ms O’Toole never gives detentions. The closest she ever gets to disciplining anyone is when she raises her voice slightly.
“Detention here, with me, today after school,” she says firmly. “Now, carry on working on your still-life piece.”
“But it’s not fair.” As soon as I say it I regret it, as I sound like a brat. But it isn’t fair. None of it is.
“I’m not going to argue about it, Rudy,” Ms O’Toole says briskly. “I’ll see you back here at three-fifteen.”
By the time three-fifteen comes around I’m seriously tempted to skip the detention, and if it had been any other teacher, I probably would. Battling against the tide of students streaming out from every available door, I make my way to the art department. When I get to Ms O’Toole’s classroom I’m relieved to see that it’s empty. She must have forgotten about me. But just as I’m about to turn and leave, she appears from the storeroom, holding a handful of paintbrushes.
“Aha, Rudy,” she says, cheerily, like she’s invited me round to tea.
I wonder what she’s going to make me do on this detention. I scan the room for any sign of fruit.
“Take a seat,” she says, gesturing to one of the tables.
I slump down in a chair. Ms O’Toole puts the paintbrushes in one of the glass jars lining the shelf and comes over to sit beside me.
“Is something going on?” she asks softly.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, is something causing you to be late? Is something going on at home – or personally?”
Normally, a teacher trying to be all best buds to get you to spill the beans makes me cringe but Ms O’Toole looks so genuinely concerned it makes me soften a bit.
“Or is it these classes?” she continues. “Have you gone off art?”
“What? No!”
Relief flickers across her face and this makes me soften even more.
“Well, that’s something at least.” She smiles. “You’re a very talented artist, Rudy.”
“Really?”
“Yes. And I think you have the potential to be an exceptional artist. I don’t want to see you blow it.”
“How do you mean?”
“I don’t want your attitude to get in the way of your talent.”
“It’s not. I love art. It’s pretty much all I think about, all I do.”
Ms O’Toole looks at me thoughtfully. “I’d love to see some of the work you do – outside of this class, I mean.”
“For real?”
“Of course.”
I’m not sure what to make of this. For so long my art has fallen into two completely separate categories – school and personal – with zero crossover. I shift in my seat. “I could show you now if you like. I have some pictures on my phone.”
“Absolutely.” Ms O’Toole smiles broadly.
I relax some more. This detention isn’t going at all how I’d imagined. I flick through the gallery on my phone until I reach the picture of the girl looking into the mirror. “I did this one recently.”
I hold my breath while Ms O’Toole looks at the picture. It doesn’t matter if she doesn’t like it, I tell myself, I’m not doing it to impress teachers.
“This is incredible.”
OK, maybe I am doing it to impress teachers because Ms O’Toole’s words seem to have set off some kind of happiness party inside of me.
I take the phone back and scroll through to the picture of the girl tied to the chair. “I did this one too.”
Again, Ms O’Toole looks blown away and again, I feel stupidly happy. “Wow. These are very powerful pieces, Rudy.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you have any more?”
I nod and swipe through to the picture of Lightning Girl on the ladder, feeling an instant twinge of sorrow as I think of what’s become of her. At least I have the photo to remember her as she was supposed to be. “This is my most recent piece.”
“I love this!” Ms O’Toole exclaims. “What’s written beside it?”
I zoom in on the poem. “My friend wrote a poem. Her words inspired my picture.”
“I would love to see this piece. Would it be possible to bring it into class?”
I shake my head. “No. I – uh – it’s actually on a wall. It’s a piece of street art.” I’m not sure whether telling a teacher you’re a street artist and therefore effectively a law-breaker is such a great idea but then Ms O’Toole isn’t any ordinary teacher. As if to reassure me she starts grinning.
“Is it here in Brighton?”
“Yeah. Well, it was but – but there’s been an accident. It got ruined.”
“Oh, what a shame.” Ms O’Toole looks genuinely disappointed. “Thank goodness you’ve got this photo at least. Can you get a print of it?”
I stare at her, confused.
“I’d love to have a copy of this on my wall,” Ms O’Toole explains.
All of the anger and pain and disappointment that’s been curdling inside me dissolves away and I feel dangerously close to tears. I blink hard and look away.
“Rudy?”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
Ms O’Toole gently places her hand on my arm. “How about we make a deal?”
“What kind of deal?”
“You turn up to my classes on time and you make an effort with the exercises I set you – even if you find them deadly boring—”
“I don’t…” She raises her eyebrows and I grin. “OK.”
“And in exchange I come up with some extra-curricular material, tailor-made for you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Now I’ve seen the kind of work you do I can point you in the direction of artists or techniques you might find useful and interesting.”
I try not to let my mouth hang open in shock. “You’d do that for me?”
“Of course. I want you to succeed, Rudy.”
“I – I don’t know what to say,” I stammer.
“Just say that we’ve got a deal.” She smiles. “Then get out of here and get back to your art.”
This has got to be the best detention ever! “Deal.” I hold my hand out to her.
She takes it and shakes it firmly. “I have very high hopes for you, Rudy.”
Her words echo in my head, carrying me like a sea breeze, up and out of school and all the way home.
CLEMENTINE
I trudge along the beach, kicking at the pebbles. Next to me, the tide crashes against the shore, as if it’s mirroring my anger. For the first time ever, I feel the same sense of despondency about going to dance class as I do about going to school. All day I’ve been thinking about Rudy, wondering how she’s feeling. And all day a creeping fear has taken over me – what if having her picture ruined makes her want to give up on street art? What if she no longer wants to collaborate with me? What will I do? I don’t think I can bear my life returning to the boring nothingness it was before. When I get close to the studio I stop and look out at the sea.
“Please…” I whisper, not sure exactly what I’m asking for, other than a miracle.
Just then my phone beeps. A jolt of relief courses through my body as I see that it’s a message from Rudy:
Team Fierce Ink meeting at Kale and Hearty NOW! Hope you can make it…
I look back at the sea and laugh. My plea has been answered, in literally one second! Unless, of course, she’s calling the meeting to officially end Team Fierce Ink, my stupid voice of fear chimes up. But I don’t care. At least I’ll have a chance to try and talk her out of it. I turn away from the studio and start walking back into Brighton.
By the time I get to Sydney Street a fine rain is falling and the café windows are steamed up. I hurry inside. Most of the tables are taken and the air is filled with chatter and the low hum of music. A thin woman with turquoise hair is standing behind the counter, slicing a cake. Beside her, a man with jet-black hair and multiple piercings is making a coffee, moving his body in time to the music. I’m about to go over and ask for Rudy when I hear a high-pitched whistle.
“Clementine!” Rudy and Tyler are sitting at a table in the far corner. I hurry over to join them.
“Hey,” I say, sitting down.
“I’m really sorry about what happened,” Tyler says to me.
“Yeah, it was crap,” I reply. “I can’t believe someone would do that. Or why.”
“I do,” Rudy says, looking slightly sheepish.
“What? Why?” I ask.
“Yeah, why?” Tyler stares at her.
“LADZ is another street artist and I…” She shifts uncomfortably in her seat.
“What have you done?” Tyler says in a mock scolding voice, like he’s totally used to Rudy getting into trouble.
“He did this picture recently that I found offensive. It was of a woman’s giant butt in a tiny G-string, so I – I customized it.”
“You customized it how?” Tyler says, raising his eyebrows to me.
“I painted a pair of shorts on it.”
“Oh man!” Tyler starts cracking up.
“I also might have added a caption,” Rudy says sheepishly.
“Saying what?” I ask.
“Don’t objectify women,” Rudy mutters. “But he was objectifying them.” She looks at us earnestly. “We are way more than butt cheeks.”
“Amen, sister!” Tyler cries, before laughing again. I bite on my lip, trying not to giggle.
“It’s not funny. I was taking a stand against misogyny.” Rudy grins. Then she looks at me. “I’m so sorry. I also painted my FIERCE tag on the label of the shorts. He must have recognized it and that’s what made him ruin our painting.”
“Wow,” is all I’m able to say, as I try to take in this latest development. In the last twenty-four hours I have not only become part of a street art collaboration but I also seem to have been plunged into a street art war. It’s official – my life is no longer boring – and I’m overcome with relief.
“I’ll totally understand if you don’t want to work with me again,” Rudy says, “but if you do, you’d better not bail,” she adds, her dark eyes sparkling, “because Team Fierce Ink have work to do.”
“We do? I mean – yes, of course! What kind of work?”
Rudy leans back in her seat. “We can’t let him beat us. We have to keep going. And when you think about it, us not being beaten is exactly what our piece was about, isn’t it? ‘It’s not about the hurting – it’s about the rising’.”
“‘Turn your lessons into ladders and start climbing’,” I add.
Rudy laughs and high-fives me. “All right then – shall we get working on our next piece?” She takes a sketchpad from her bag and opens it to a blank page. “What do you reckon we should do next?”
I truly cannot believe my luck at this turn of events. I had no idea Rudy would take it so well. It makes me feel ashamed for feeling so sorry for myself all day.
“What about what we talked about the other night on the beach? About people polluting the ocean with plastic.”
“Great idea,” Tyler says. “I was reading this piece on BuzzFeed on my lunchbreak that said that one hundred million sea creatures are killed every year because of plastic.”
“What the hell?” Rudy exclaims.
“It’s true,” I say. “They’re either eating it or getting tangled up in it.”
The guy with the black hair and piercings comes over, holding an orders pad and pencil. “Can I get you guys any drinks?”
“Hey, Sid, I started working on some sketches for your tattoo the other night.” Rudy flicks through her pad and shows him some pictures.
“These are awesome.” He crouches down next to her and points to the page. “I love this one. Is there any way you could make the tail slightly longer?”
“Sure.” Rudy starts sketching.
“Nice one.” Sid stands up and grins at me. “Hello, I don’t think we’ve met.”
“This is Clementine,” Tyler says. “She’s a poet.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say—” I begin.
“She’s a great poet,” Rudy cuts in, not looking up from her pad. “We’re collaborating on some pieces.”
“Really?” Sid looks g
enuinely interested.
“Yeah, look.” Tyler takes his phone from his pocket and shows him what I guess must be a photo of our work from last night before it got ruined.
“This is epic,” Sid exclaims.
“Was,” Rudy mutters, still drawing. “Before someone ruined it.”
“Shit!” Sid looks genuinely distraught, which restores my faith in humanity.
“That reminds me,” Rudy says, looking up from her pad. “Would it be OK to use the office printer to make a copy?”
“Of course.” Sid turns to Tyler. “Send it to me and I’ll print one out now. Right, who’s for drinks?”
We order and Sid goes over to the counter.
“Right, I’d better get back to work.” Tyler stands up and puts his phone back in his pocket. I try to ignore how disappointed this makes me feel.
RUDY
I look down at a fresh new page in my sketchpad. What could I draw to symbolize how the ocean is being polluted? This is definitely pushing me out of my comfort zone but I love the challenge. Maybe I could sketch a selection of endangered sea creatures but that feels a bit predictable. I need something more powerful, something that represents the sea itself. The image of a mermaid pops into my mind. But this mermaid isn’t all cutesy and Disney. She has glistening black skin and a glimmering blue tail and a thick mane of cornrow braids crowning her head.
Across the table from me, Clementine is writing in her notebook. Every so often she stops and chews the end of her pen, gazing into space, just like I do when I’m waiting for inspiration. I’ve always preferred to come up with ideas for my artwork on my own but this feels even better. As I watch Clementine gazing out of the window I think of her theory that poems already exist fully formed in some magical realm, just waiting for a writer they can use as a channel. I smile as I imagine our next piece of street art swirling around somewhere in the ether, waiting for us both to find it.
Clementine and Rudy Page 12