Clementine and Rudy Read online

  I stand up. “I’m going to my room. I’ve got loads of homework to do.”

  “But you’ve hardly eaten a thing.” Mum studies my plate.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Vincent gives a theatrical sigh and shakes his head.

  “Oh, come on—” Mum starts.

  “Let her go,” Vincent cuts in. “At least the atmosphere will improve.”

  I look at Mum. Is she seriously going to let him get away with this?

  “OK,” she says quietly, prodding at a pasta shell with her fork.

  I’m so angry I can barely see as I stumble from the room and upstairs. It’s so unfair. Even though he’s the one who treats her like crap, I’m the one who gets the blame. As I march into my bedroom it takes everything I’ve got not to slam the door. I’m not playing into his stupid “feminazi” theory. I lie on my bed and push my fists into my eyes to fight the annoying urge to cry. Once it’s passed I take my phone from my pocket. I think about WhatsApping Dad but there’s no point. It’s not as if he can do anything to help. Dad moved to Berlin three years ago, after marrying Ada, a German woman he met through work. Now I only get to see him on school holidays. Ada is expecting a baby in June. I try not to think about what this might mean for Dad and me.

  An Instagram notification flashes up on the screen. I click on it and see that my earlier photo-poem has got a load of new likes. I know that being obsessed with social media is like being some kind of crack addict, hooked on dopamine hits, but right now I need this. I need the validation that I am good at something. That my words mean something. That maybe, just maybe, they’ll help me to escape.

  RUDY

  The thing I love most about art is how I lose myself in it. When I start to paint or draw it’s like I’ve wandered deep inside a labyrinth, where nothing else matters and anything that’s been stressing me out fades away and all that’s left is the picture; all that counts is the picture. It’s gone midnight when I finally stop working. I’ve pretty much got all of the separate pieces done. Now it’s just a case of layering them together, but I’ll do that tomorrow when tiredness isn’t making me feel dizzy. I move the wardrobe back and put my paints away. Suddenly I’m starving. I go to the kitchen and make myself a mug of ginger tea and hunt around the cupboards. Unfortunately, Mum doesn’t like shopping. OK, scrap that. Mum loves shopping, if it’s for make-up or clothes or accessories so sparkly they blind you when they catch the light, but shopping for food? Forget it. I find a box of mince pies left over from Christmas that are just inside their sell-by date and a solitary satsuma.

  I take my festive midnight feast back to my room and start scrolling around on my phone. Tyler says that social media is dumbing us down, hashtag by hashtag, but I say that it’s all in the curation. If you only follow who and what you want to see, it’s all good. I use my private Instagram account to follow urban artists, so for me social media is all about inspiration. Case in point: my hero, a French urban artist named Miss.Tic, has just posted a new photo. It’s of one of her famous stencilled women, standing beside a black cat. The words “Je ne gris pas que les cœurs” are stencilled in Miss.Tic’s distinctive red script at the side of the picture. French is one of the classes where my brain goes missing in action so I put the words into Google Translate. It comes up as “I do not gray that hearts”. Hmm. Maybe I should pay more attention in French, as I’m pretty certain that can’t be right.

  I wish Miss.Tic would one day do a piece with the words in English. So often the meaning of her pieces get lost in Google-translation. I scroll on down and a photo comes up under the hashtag #streetartbrighton that makes my hackles rise. It’s of a huge woman’s backside, and the woman is wearing the tiniest G-string. The artist has sprayed his tag across one of the butt cheeks like a tattoo: LADZ. Looking at the picture makes me feel sick. It makes me want to grab one of my cans and head into Brighton and spray DEATH TO THE PATRIARCHY on the other butt cheek. But I’m way too tired so I keep on scrolling. Then I see something that makes my heart practically beat its way out of my ribcage. Someone has posted a photo of my picture! I blink hard to make sure I’m not seeing things. But it really is my picture on Instagram. It’s been posted by a profile called @SpilledInk and they’ve written something in the description box alongside it.

  In the hall of mirrors made by the media

  In the lens of lies created by your fear

  Your reflection is bloated beyond recognition

  While the real you shrinks and your dreams disappear.

  What the hell? Not only have they posted my picture, but they’ve really understood it. I’m not sure what to do with this information. I call Tyler. He’s always up until at least 3 a.m. playing video games but the call tone rings and rings. Finally, he answers. Thankfully, I can hear music playing softly in the background so I know he can’t have been asleep.

  “Hey, Jedi sis. You OK?”

  “Yeah. Something really cool just happened.”

  “What, cooler than me just winning Fortnite Battle Royale?”

  “Er, yeah, if that’s a good thing?” Tyler’s gaming-speak is like French to me. “Someone’s posted a photo of my street art on Instagram.”

  “What?” Tyler turns off his music.

  “I found it just now on my feed.”

  “But how…?”

  “They used the Brighton street art hashtag. It’s one of the ones I follow.”

  “You’re kidding? Oh my God, you’re Insta-famous. Like that family of eejits who all begin with ‘K’.”

  “Hardly.” I laugh. “But whoever did it has written a poem to go with it.”

  “OK, now that is cool.”

  “I know, right. I’ll show it to you tomorrow in the café.” I get into bed and pull the duvet up over me.

  “Great. So, how was school?”

  “Like being in prison. It’s so crap now you’re not there.” Although Tyler was two years above me, we always hung out together at break times. Not having him there any more has introduced me to a new brand of lonely.

  “I wish I could say the same but…” Tyler laughs.

  “How was it at the café?”

  “We did a roaring trade in green juice and smoothies. I guess everyone’s still on their post-Christmas detox.”

  I look at my pack of mince pies. “Ha! Not me.”

  “Me neither. It’s February, the month of the year where joy goes to die. Now is not the time to starve ourselves of comfort. So, what are you going to do about this Insta-poet then? Are you going to contact them?”

  “What? No! What would I say?”

  “You could tell them that it’s your picture, thank them for writing the poem.”

  “Oh, no, I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “It feels a bit cringe.”

  “Ah, I see. You’re going for the enigmatic urban artist look.”

  “Something like that.” I yawn. “I suppose I’d better get some sleep.”

  “Lightweight.”

  “Yeah, well, we can’t all survive on four hours’ sleep a night.”

  “I don’t just survive. I thrive.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ll remind you of that in the morning.”

  Tyler laughs. “Night, Jedi sis.”

  “Night, Jedi bruv.”

  I put my phone on my bedside table and close my eyes. But my thoughts keep sparking like matches in the darkness. Somebody posted a photo of my work under the #streetartbrighton. Now it really is official – I’m an urban artist.

  CLEMENTINE

  After a night of stress dreams about Mum and Vincent I wake up feeling more tense than I did before I went to sleep. But I’m determined not to have another day like yesterday. I get out of bed and put on my Spotify “Dance the Crap Away” playlist. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, as if I’m inhaling the melody. Then I stretch my arms. As the beat gets faster and I start to loosen and shake out my limbs, I shake out the tension and the grogginess of sleep. Then I move my atte
ntion to my feet as they start tracing the rhythm. None of it matters, I tell myself. Not Vincent. Not Mum. Not school and the fact that I appear to have outgrown my friends. One day I’ll be out of here and free from it all. I start dancing my way into my dreams. An attic flat in Brighton, with a view of the sea. A room full of old books and vintage typewriters and antique furniture, every object containing its own story, instead of the soulless new furniture that Mum insists on filling the house with.

  I open my eyes, take in the immaculate white walls and the immaculate white furnishings, all carefully arranged for symmetry. Mum says this house is her full-time job. She pours all her energy into creating a living space that’s flawless, but I can’t help thinking it’s her way of trying to hide the mess that lies beneath. I close my eyes again. Spin in a pirouette, trying to spin my way back to my dream…

  I’ll live on my own in my attic flat but it will always be full of a colourful cast of characters, creative friends who really understand me. And my loving and totally supportive boyfriend, Luc, of course. They’ll always be welcome and they’ll never have to take their shoes off for fear of ruining the carpet. I won’t have a bland cream carpet for a start. I’ll have an antique carpet in deep, rich colours and an assortment of cosy rugs. I’ll have a black chandelier hanging from the ceiling and red candles dotted around the room in old wine bottles, the wax trickling down the sides and—

  “Clementine, what are you doing?”

  I halt, statue-still, at the sound of Mum’s voice. She’s standing in my doorway, wearing her pink satin dressing gown, not a perfectly straightened hair out of place. Sometimes I wonder if she even sleeps at all, for fear that rolling over in the night might make her messy.

  “Just practising,” I say, quickly turning off the music. “For the auditions at dance class this evening.” This is only partly a lie – we do actually have auditions for the summer show this evening.

  “Oh yes.” Mum nods thoughtfully. “Can I come in?”

  I frown. Mum never normally asks. She normally just barges. It’s been the source of many an argument recently. “OK.”

  I sit down on the bed and Mum sits next to me.

  “I’m sorry – about last night.”

  She never normally apologizes either. Maybe I’m still in bed and dreaming. “Oh, uh, that’s OK.”

  “Things are a little difficult at the moment – with Vincent.”

  “Right.” The tiniest nib of hope pokes its way into my mind. Mum is never normally this forthcoming about things with Vincent.

  “Anyway, I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

  “That’s OK.”

  Mum starts fiddling with the belt on her robe. “It’s just that he’s under a lot of pressure at the moment.”

  “Why?”

  “The figures for his show are down. Way down. He had a meeting with his bosses last week and they’ve told him he has until March to turn things around.”

  “I see.” I know it’s wrong to take pleasure in another’s pain but I can’t help feeling a twinge of satisfaction at this news.

  “So, if you could be extra patient with him I’d really appreciate it.”

  I want to yell at Mum for always putting his feelings before everything but then I see how tired she looks; how the lines around her eyes look so deeply etched without her usual mask of make-up. “Of course.”

  “Thank you.” She hugs me. As always she smells amazing. Expensive. Her lotions and potions bought, like everything else in this house, by Vincent. I wonder if this is why Mum puts up with his crap – because she’s reliant on his money. “I’ll go and make you some breakfast. Do you fancy a bagel?”

  “Sure.”

  As soon as she’s gone I pick up my phone. I need my early morning dopamine fix. There’s an Instagram notification. I click on it: “@FierceUrban and 27 other people liked your photo.” @FierceUrban. Could it be? A shiver of excitement runs up my spine. I click on the link but the profile is set to private and there’s no profile pic. They have no followers so I click on the list of people they’re following. They all seem to be street artists. Hmm. So @FierceUrban could be a street artist themselves, or they could just be a fan of street art and it’s a coincidence. Let’s face it, Fierce isn’t exactly an unusual word, there’s no proof it’s the artist. But what if…?

  RUDY

  One time, when I got caught trying a cigarette with a couple of other kids behind the bins, Mum sat me down and gave me a talk about the importance of not just knowing the difference between right and wrong but making sure I did the right thing – no matter how tempting doing the wrong thing might be. But what if you genuinely don’t know what the right thing to do is? This question hangs above my head like a comic-style thought bubble as I stare up at the picture by LADZ. Objectifying women like this is definitely wrong. But does that make what I’m about to do right?

  “Two wrongs don’t make a right,” Mum’s voice echoes round my head. But surely a wrong left unchallenged is even more of a wrong? Before I can get myself any more confused I quickly glance up and down the street. LADZ had added the location to his picture so it was easy to find – a narrow back street full of lock-up garages, tucked away behind a warehouse. Thankfully it’s deserted, the only sound the screech of seagulls and the distant hum of Brighton traffic. I take my can from my bag and give it a shake. Check the street once again – left and right – take off the lid and start to spray. Even though the butt cheeks are enormous, there’s not quite enough room to paint DEATH TO THE PATRIARCHY, so I spray on a pair of shorts instead, in denim blue. I check the street once again. It’s still deserted, so I get my can of black paint from my bag and spray a back pocket on the shorts, with my FIERCE tag like a brand logo. Then, just to make sure that LADZ gets the point, I spray DON’T OBJECTIFY WOMEN beneath the butt cheeks. I take a step back and grin. Even though I’ve probably just broken all kinds of unwritten street art rules, it definitely feels like I’ve done the right thing. I hurry off to catch the bus to school.

  Here’s an interesting observation I’ve made about school … when you genuinely don’t care any more about the cliques and the bullies and the rules about what’s cool and what’s not and who’s got a crush on who, they stop caring about you too. You have to genuinely not care though, it’s no good talking the talk if you’re still crying yourself to sleep every night.

  When I first started at Kemptown High I really cared who liked me. I’d watched so many high-school movies and had such high hopes of finding a friendship group who really got me. But all I found were girls I had nothing in common with and boys who were seriously immature. So I ended up hanging around with Tyler, even though he was two years above me. My refusal to hang out with kids my own age got me labelled as one of the “weirdos” and I’d be lying if I said that didn’t hurt at first. But then, about a year ago, I genuinely stopped caring and decided to see my so-called “weirdness” as a superpower. Just like Beyoncé did with her alter ego, Sasha Fierce, I created a butt-kicking alter ego, Lightning Girl. I started out by drawing pictures of her, then slowly, I changed myself to match, growing my Afro and getting my piercings, painting a silver skull and crossbones on my DM boots. And as soon as I’m old enough I’m going to get a lightning bolt tattooed on my wrist.

  The funny thing is, it turns out there’s an interesting kink in the school “weirdo spectrum”, when you become so different from the norm you’re actually deemed cool. Now, people talk to me like they want me to like them. Now, as I walk in late to my art class, my fellow students look up at me and smile. And not in a mocking way but in a Oh, hey. Late again? What are you like? kind of way. The trouble is, I still feel like a jigsaw piece that’s been shoved back in the wrong box. I don’t fit in here and I never will.

  “Thank you so much for being kind enough to join us, Rudy,” my art teacher, Ms O’Toole, says, but there’s a twinkle in her eye as she says it. Ms O’Toole is one of the nice teachers, one of the ones who genuinely seem to care about their students
. She’s really old, like at least fifty, but she’s not judgy at all.

  “You’re welcome,” I reply.

  “Today, we’re doing still-life drawing,” she says, pointing to an apple that’s been placed on the table in front of me.

  An apple-shaped piece of me dies inside.

  “I’d like you to focus particularly on the light and shade.”

  I nod but already I’m falling into a stupor.

  I take the sketchpad from my bag and open my pencil case. I look at the apple. It’s not even red and shiny like the poisoned apple in Snow White. It’s an insipid pale yellow. I imagine taking a photo of it and painting a maggot crawling out. A zombie maggot with a skeletal head. I start sketching the outline of the fruit. It looks exactly how I feel, dull and uninspired.

  “Is everything OK, Rudy?” Ms O’Toole asks as she comes to stand beside me. She’s wearing a pair of her trademark dungarees and her glasses are perched on top of her cropped grey hair.

  “Yes, why?”

  “You’re late again. Remember what we said about your lateness last month?”

  I have a flashback to Ms O’Toole warning me that my grades were going to suffer if I didn’t start making it in on time for my lessons.

  I nod. The truth is, it isn’t my time-keeping that’s the problem, it’s being made to draw boring pictures of boring fruit all the time. As if I don’t get enough fruit and veg at Kale and Hearty.

  Ms O’Toole looks over my shoulder at my pad. I know what I’ve drawn is bad. And I know it’s not her fault, she’s just teaching us what she’s told to. Like Tyler says, we’re all part of the giant sausage machine, even the teachers.

  “Is there any way I can make a mixed-media piece featuring the apple?” I ask her hopefully.

  She shakes her head.

  I sigh.

  “You have to learn the rules first if you want to break them well,” she says.

  “Why?” I become aware of the other students around me prickling to attention.