“Hands up if your parents own their house?” said Mr Morgan. A sea of hands shot up. I kept mine down. We were living in my great aunt’s house, and although we paid her to live there, we didn’t own it. She gave us a discount as we were family, but on the understanding that we had to pay for any repairs.
“OK! So that’s most of you,” he said, pacing back and forth. “That’s great! So, your parents would have come to someone like me to buy their house! I’m an estate agent.”
Mr Morgan’s presentation consisted of slides of different houses that he had sold in the local area, including how much they cost. It was quite interesting to start with as we got to see the insides of some cool places, but after a while we all began to fidget on the hard chairs. The only person not moving around was Leyton, who scowled at anyone who wasn’t paying attention.
Mrs Williams asked if any of us had any questions. Someone asked about the most expensive house that he had sold and someone else asked what his favourite colour was, so Mrs Williams said it was probably time we moved on to the next guest. Kathryn Shelton’s dad went next. He was a lawyer and everyone got excited as we all thought he worked with criminals and murderers, but it turned out he mostly helped people get divorced. Then it was Pia Bowman’s mum, who was an optician. She showed us some of the instruments she used to do an eye examination, and Dean went to the front and tried on the big frames that they used to check what strength glasses you needed. The mum in the green uniform was after that. I was right, she was a paramedic, and she told us about how she tried to save someone’s leg after they’d been a car accident. She was just getting to a really gory bit when Mrs Williams went a bit pale and stopped her, saying that we were running out of time and had to move on to the final guest.
My stomach turned over as Dad stood up and walked to the front of the class. Mrs Williams introduced him as Mr Miller and he began.
“We’ve heard about some really interesting jobs here this morning, haven’t we?” he said. It was weird hearing my dad talking like a teacher. The class nodded and all said “yes” back to him. I couldn’t wait for everyone to hear about his amazing job and all the famous bands that he’d met.
“Well, I think I might have the most important job that has ever existed. Would any of you like to guess what that might be?”
A few hands went up and Dad picked them out.
“A policeman?” said one. Dad shook his head.
“A politician?”
“A footballer?”
Dad smiled and said no to each one. I felt a bit uneasy. OK, so being a music roadie was cool, but it wasn’t exactly the most important job in the world, not compared to being the prime minister or something.
“There are some really good answers there, but no. My job is even more important than all of those. I am a father!”
My stomach plummeted and hit the cold, wooden floor of the hall. This was a disaster. I slowly sank down in my seat and folded my arms.
“That’s not a job!” shouted Trevor O’Riordan from the back.
“Oh, but it is!” said Dad. “Cole’s mum works full-time and she is the person in our house who earns the money, but I still have a great deal of responsibility as my role is to look after my son and baby daughter.”
I could feel my face burning. What about touring the world? The big concerts? The famous rock stars? A few people turned around and looked at me but I kept my eyes on the floor, willing him to stop speaking. Why couldn’t he be an estate agent like Leyton’s dad? Or a paramedic, being brave and saving lives?
Dad carried on talking about how looking after your children was a very important job, but by that point everyone had completely lost interest. Mrs Williams jumped up out of her seat and asked if anyone had any questions. I held my breath and prayed that no one would, but then a girl at the front put her hand up.
“Have you ever worked?”
“I have,” said Dad. At last! Now it would get interesting. I sat upright and smiled at Dad. Now they’d hear all about his proper job.
“I worked in the music business and I used to tour the world alongside lots of bands.”
This was more like it! I looked around and saw a flicker of interest on a few people’s faces.
“But then we realized that my low pay and being away from home so much wasn’t really working. I took the decision to become a full-time dad. After all, money isn’t everything!”
He laughed after he said that, but the hall was silent. I hunched my shoulders and stared down at my lap. Surely the time was up now? Niall raised his hand and I groaned.
“Are you poor?” he asked, and I could see him smirking. Mrs Williams went to say something but Dad was already answering.
“I guess if you are asking if we are poor by the amount of money we have, then yes. We are poor…”
There was a low-level gasp across the hall.
“But we are rich in other ways. We get to spend a lot of time together as a family and that is priceless.”
No one said anything. I felt sick. I could tell that Dad was looking at me but I avoided his eyes. Why had I thought that he was going to talk about his roadie job? Why? We gave the parents a round of applause and after they’d left we filed back to class. Someone shoved me on the shoulder.
“That was well funny,” said Leyton. “Poor Kid Cole! If that’s your dad’s job, are you his boss?”
“Does he get benefits? My uncle used to get money for doing nothing. My mum said he was lazy,” said Shannon.
I wanted to cry.
Everyone looked at me differently after that. From then on I became Poor Kid Cole, a nickname that had stuck with me ever since. I was the one whose dad stayed at home and didn’t work.
And now it looked like Mum was out of a job too.
Marika Visits School
After Mum’s bombshell about losing her job I headed off to school. I left my parents in the kitchen, talking about what they were going to do next. It didn’t sound like they had much of a plan. Also, I could tell by their voices that they were worrying, and that made me feel even more panicky.
When I got to the playground everyone was buzzing about their trip to Thrill Kingdom. There was no sign of Mason so I stood behind Niall, Leyton and Dean.
“Hey, Poor King Cole!” said Niall, turning around and slinging his arm across my shoulders. “You missed such a brilliant day!”
“Yeah, the park was empty, there were no queues at all!” said Dean. “We went straight on everything.”
“Great,” I muttered, looking out for Mason. The three of them carried on chatting about all the funny things that had happened, and then there was a loud clatter behind us. We turned around. It was Isla Roberts dropping her cello case.
We watched as she adjusted a bag on each shoulder and then scooped up the large black case and struggled across the tarmac with it. Isla was some kind of musical genius. She had time off normal lessons so that she could do extra practice for national competitions, she was that good.
“There goes Mozart,” said Leyton, laughing. “What a loser.” Leyton seemed to find nicknames hilarious.
The bell rang and as we trooped inside I noticed one of the posters that Mason and I had put on the door was hanging on by a single pin. Today was the day Marika Loft, the famous artist, was coming to visit us.
Mason came running into our form room just before the end of registration.
“All right?” he panted, his face red. His parents left for work before he woke, so every morning he had to get himself up, have breakfast and set the house security system before going to school. He had a lot of late marks.
“All right?” I said. My stomach churned when I thought about the bright purple stain on the carpet in his house. After hearing Mum’s news about her job, paying a carpet-cleaning bill was going to be impossible.
“Mason?” I said nervously. “Did your parents find out what happened?”
Mason nodded. “Don’t worry about it, it’s fine. I told them it was me wh
o spilt the drink.”
Relief washed through my body. I was about to thank him when our form tutor, Miss Canning, ran into the classroom.
“7A, I’m afraid there has been a change of plan for today’s visit. Marika Loft isn’t able to stay for the whole day after all, so you must go to your normal lessons as usual.”
There was a groan from the class.
“All that clearing up we had to do and she’s only going to be here for five minutes!” said Mason quietly.
“Marika’s personal assistant has stated that she doesn’t ‘do’ assemblies or go on tours of school corridors,” said Miss Canning, rolling her eyes. “But she will spend some time with an art class. And I believe, 7A, that your form is due to have art this morning. Am I right?”
A few people mumbled yes and then she took the register and went through the rules about us all being on our best behaviour.
When we got to the art room, Mrs Frampton was busy rearranging easels and piles of drawing paper.
“Sit down, 7A,” she cried. “Quickly now! She’s going to be here any minute.”
I sat between Mason and Isla and we watched as Mrs Frampton paced around, not really knowing what to do with herself. She got to the front of the class and stopped, placing her hand on her heart.
“Children, you’ve been given an incredible opportunity here. This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience and I want you to … embrace it. Today will stay with you for the rest of your lives.”
“Crikey, talk about a build-up,” whispered Mason under his breath.
In front of us we each had a small, square canvas and a little wooden box filled with tubes of paints, three brushes, a pencil, a small plastic dish and a bottle of water.
“Ms Loft has very kindly donated some art materials to the school,” said Mrs Frampton. “Be very careful with them. We want Marika to see what well-behaved students you are and how carefully the school would make use of any … financial investment she might be willing to make to the art department.” She turned and straightened one of her own paintings which had appeared on the wall behind her desk.
Isla, who was sitting the other side of me, leant forward and peered into her box. She took out a small tube of black paint, which was branded with the famous Loft logo.
“Blimey, this stuff must be well expensive,” said Mason, picking out a brush which also had the Loft logo along the edge. Not only did Marika have a range of art material but she also had her own perfume, aftershave and handbags, apparently.
“Miss!” said Reilly Campbell. “Do you think she’d donate something better if we asked nicely?”
“Yeah,” chimed in Pia Bowman. “Art’s well boring.”
“I’d rather have one of her Porsches!” yelled Spencer Walker. Everyone started chattering amongst themselves and then the classroom was filled with the clatter of the boxes being tipped out on to the desks.
“Keep your paints in your box!” shouted Mrs Frampton above the rabble.
A few brushes went flying across the room and Mrs Frampton darted around, rescuing them from the floor.
“Stop throwing the equipment around, 7A!” she screeched, crawling under a desk. “Whatever has got into you? Marika will be here any second and she won’t like any of this—”
BANG.
The door to the classroom swung open and, just like that, Marika Loft was standing in the doorway. Her eyes quickly scanned the class. Mr Taylor, the head, was hovering behind her, his face flushed.
Mrs Frampton slowly emerged from beneath a desk at the front of the class with a bunch of brushes in her hand.
“It’s you…” she said, as she stared at the famous artist.
Marika walked into the room. She was very tall and she was wearing grey, wide-legged trousers that completely covered her feet so it looked like she was gliding. Her hands were in her pockets and she was wearing a white shirt with long, puffy sleeves. Her eyes were an unnatural shade of violet and her short hair was dyed a silvery-grey and shaved on one side. As she brushed past our desk I saw a skull-and-crossbones stud in her ear. It was encrusted with diamonds that glinted against her dark-brown skin.
Everyone fell silent as the artist stood at the front of the class. We’d all forgotten the rule about not staring. She slowly looked around the hushed room and then nodded towards Mr Taylor, who was still in the doorway, clearly unsure if he should come in or not.
“I’ll, erm… Shall I leave you to it then, Ms Loft? Erm … yes. Yes, I shall,” he said, practically bowing as he reversed into the corridor.
Marika’s lips curled into a small smile.
“Ms Loft,” said Mrs Frampton, her eyes staring down at the ground. “Can I just say what an absolute pleasure it is to—”
“Thank you, teacher,” interrupted Marika, so quietly it was barely audible. “I’ll take it from here. Why don’t you go and make yourself a nice … cup of tea?”
Mrs Frampton’s face dropped.
“Oh … I … I’d quite like to stay and see how you work if that’s all ri—?”
Marika closed her eyes and shook her head.
“I see,” said Mrs Frampton. She looked at us then pressed her fingers to her lips like she was trying not to let out a sob.
A young man came into the classroom. He was wearing a grey suit and carrying a black briefcase with the Loft logo on the side. He took a bottle of water out of the case and placed it on the desk next to Marika. He whispered something in Mrs Frampton’s ear, before putting his hand on her arm and guiding her towards the door.
“That must be her personal assistant,” whispered Isla.
“Be good, 7A!” squeaked Mrs Frampton, as she was ushered out of the room. “Don’t let me down!”
At the front of the class, Marika stood with her hands on her hips. She stared at us for so long there were a few nervous coughs. I was starting to wonder if we were supposed to do something when she finally began to speak.
“ART,” she said loudly. “What … does … ART … actually … mean?”
We all straightened up to listen to what she was going to say next, but she was silent. Isla looked at me, her forehead wrinkled. If a teacher asked a question then Isla was always the first person to put her hand up, but she clearly wasn’t sure if Marika really wanted a response.
The artist began to walk between the desks, her lilac eyes studying each of us in turn. We took sideways glances at each other, waiting to see what was going to happen next, when she suddenly stopped in front of Dean Grant. She rested her hands on his desk and leant towards him.
“You,” she said, a tiny smile on her lips. “What does art actually mean?”
Dean turned a bright shade of pink and squirmed in his seat.
“Erm. It, erm, it means, erm … paintings and stuff?” he said. Someone behind me snorted. Marika blinked at Dean a few times and then straightened up. She slowly walked to the front of the class and turned on a heel as she opened her arms wide. And then she spoke.
“7A,” she said quietly. “It’s time to make some paintings and stuff!”
She stood there, motionless, her arms outstretched as she stared at every single person in the class. Nobody moved. We just sat and stared back. Eventually, Kiki Gibbs raised her hand.
“Um, are we supposed to just … start?” she said.
Marika nodded.
“You’ve got everything you need in your box: find a space, sit with your canvas, look around you and … paint.”
“That’s it?” said Reilly Holder. “Just paint?”
Marika smiled at her, closed her eyes and nodded again. Archie Bryce put his hand up next.
“But … what do we paint?” he asked. We all waited for an answer. We weren’t used to being asked to do something without more instructions than this.
“Paint whatever you want. This…” she said, waving her hand around, “is your ‘stuff’. Art is art. Anyone can make it!”
Her lilac eyes glowed as she surveyed the room. It was as if she was looking
at the most beautiful scene in the world, rather than just our boring art block. She put her hands into her trouser pockets and circled us, like a shark.
“Get up from your desks and move around. Find something that really speaks to you. You can paint the sounds of a chair scraping on the floor or the smell of the coffee coming from the staff room or the feeling of your hand on your smooth desk…”
“The smell of coffee? How are we supposed to paint that?!” scoffed Hannah Clark, pulling a face.
“She’s well weird,” whispered Archie from behind me.
“I want you to express yourselves. I want to see you on the canvas.”
“What, like a self-portrait?” asked Arek Nowak. Marika frowned and slowly shook her head. We were beginning to frustrate her now.
“No, not a self-portrait. But I want to feel you through the canvas,” she said.
Arek blinked back at her. He opened his mouth to say something else but then decided against it.
“You have one hour, 7A,” said Marika, glancing at her silver watch. “Three, two, one … GO!”
We all looked at each other. A couple of girls at the front slowly picked up their canvas and paints and stood up.
“Did you see her eyes?” said Mason. “No one has lilac eyes. She must be wearing contact lenses.”
Isla collected her things and moved over to some shelves. She sat on the floor cross-legged, put her canvas on her lap and began to sketch the pots of brushes.
“That’s wonderful!” said Marika, spotting her. “You might choose to change your perspective to get the picture you want. Sit on the floor, stand on your chair, climb on your desk!”
Archie immediately stood on his chair and Hannah got up on to a desk and sat right in the middle. There was a moment of chaos as everyone started laughing and climbing over the furniture, but Marika just stood there, smiling.
“I’m going to paint the cars outside,” said Mason. “A few blobs of paint and some wheels and I’ll be done.” He headed towards Mrs Frampton’s desk, which had the best view of the car park. I walked around the room, trying to find a space where I could paint something, but all the best places were taken. I went to the back of the class and sat on the floor, leaning up against the wall. The sun was beating against the window and I turned my head to stare outside. The sky was the colour of a Caribbean sea and there were two aeroplane vapour trails that crisscrossed each other like a giant kiss.
The Boy Who Fooled the World Page 3
