“It’s all about honing your technique. When you’ve mastered the basics you’re able to challenge them far more powerfully.”
I look at the apple. I truly don’t get how drawing it is going to help me with the art I want to make. I want to draw people not fruit.
“Stop thinking of it as an apple,” Ms O’Toole says, as if reading my mind. “Focus on the light and shade.”
“OK.” I lean back on my stool and stare at the apple, chewing on the end of my pencil. The harsh glare of the strip light above is shining right on it. I take my science textbook from my bag and prop it beside the apple, partially blocking the light and causing the apple to cast a weird elongated shadow on the table. Now, it’s starting to look interesting. I start tapping my foot to an imaginary hip-hop beat and all of a sudden the entrance to the labyrinth comes rushing up to meet me.
CLEMENTINE
Every Tuesday after school, I go to performing arts school. I know it’s probably most people’s idea of hell attending after school – but I love it. Or at least, I used to. Over the past few months the emphasis has shifted away from enjoyment to getting us all “exam- and audition-ready”, which has made things slightly more stressful. Even so, the two afternoons a week I spend at the Dana Roberts Performing Arts Academy are the closest thing I’ve got at the moment to living my dancing dream. As I make my way along the seafront I inhale lungfuls of cold, salty air and exhale the boredom and frustration from my day.
The Academy is in what was once a grand old hotel between Palace Pier and Brighton Marina. The main building is on the promenade overlooking the sea but last year they built a dance studio on the beach. The wall of the studio facing the sea is entirely made of glass. The first time I danced there, looking at my beloved sea, I thought I might burst I was so happy. I hurry along the narrow path from the promenade to the studio entrance. Twilight is rolling in and the beach is deserted. I go into the reception area and poke my head round the studio door. As usual, I’m the first to arrive. My teacher, Bailey, is playing some of her favourite trance music while she sets up and the studio smells of geranium and patchouli. Bailey is a great believer in the power of aromatherapy and she likes to “cleanse the space before we dance”. She’s from California.
“Hey, Clem,” she calls when she sees me. “You all set for the audition?”
“Absolutely,” I say but as soon as I do, fear begins nipping at me. I’ve tried to tell myself that this show isn’t a big deal, that it doesn’t really matter if I get cast or not but I was lying. Actually, having a show to focus on and rehearsals to lose myself in over the next few months will be a sanity-saver.
“Remember what I said to you before the Christmas break,” Bailey says. “Lose the stiffness, let your true self shine.”
“OK. I will. Thank you.”
I go to the toilets and into a cubicle. I pull off my school uniform and get into my vest top and lucky leggings. They’re my lucky leggings because I wore them in my street dance exam last year and passed with distinction. Just as I’m coming out of the cubicle the toilet door crashes open and Jody and Abby come in. Jody and Abby go to a high school in Kemptown. I feel like maybe they think I’m stuck-up because I go to a private school. Scrap that. I know they think I’m stuck-up because I overheard them talking about me one day in the toilets. “That Clementine so thinks she’s better than us,” Jody had said. “Yeah, it’s like she can’t even lower herself to talk to us,” Abby chimed in. I’d sat frozen and mortified in my cubicle, wishing there was some way I could flush myself down the U-bend. The truth is, I’m not stuck-up, not at all, I just find it hard to make conversation with people I don’t know. I wish shyness didn’t so often seem so close to arrogance.
“Hey,” I say cheerily as they walk in. One of my New Year’s resolutions was to try and prove them wrong and get them to be friends with me. Or be friendlier to me, at least. One month in, and I’m still trying.
“All right,” Jody says, but her voice is full of suspicion.
Abby meets my gaze in the mirror above the sinks and nods almost imperceptibly.
“All set for the audition?” I say, determined not to be beaten.
“Yeah,” Abby says, but her voice is full of defiance, like l’m asking a trick question.
“That’s great,” I say, dropping the final “t” in that’s to try and make me sound more street, which I’m aware probably only makes me sound more pathetic.
Jody turns to Abby. “Can I borrow your lip balm, babe? I left mine in my locker.”
My body smarts from the rejection. I told you you shouldn’t have bothered, my inner voice goads. Now you just look more stupid. I go back into the cubicle and lock the door. I press my burning cheek to the cold wall. Why does life have to be so difficult?
“Oh my God, look at my left eyebrow!” Jody shrieks. “It’s got a mutant hair growing out of it.”
“Oh my God, it’s, like, three centimetres long!” Abby gasps.
I flush the toilet and visualize it taking all of my stress with it. I need to relax. I need to get in the right mindset for the audition.
I go over to the sinks, where Jody and Abby are now in a collective meltdown about the mutant eyebrow hair. As I wash my hands they look through me as if I’m invisible.
When I go back into the studio most of the class have arrived and it’s buzzing with laughter and chatter. I find a spot by the glass wall overlooking the sea and I do a couple of stretches to ground me. Don’t let anyone silence you / speak speak speak / through your lungs and your heart and your feet. The words start dropping into my mind as soon as I start warming up. This always happens at dance class. There’s something about moving my body that frees my mind. I can’t be thinking about poems now, though, I have to focus on the dance.
A hush falls as Dana Roberts walks in. Her shiny raven hair is pulled back into a tight bun and she’s wearing a scarlet leotard and a long black skirt. Dana Roberts is the founder of the Academy and a former dancer with the Royal Ballet. She’s inspiring and terrifying in equal measure.
“OK, people,” Bailey calls. “Let’s begin.”
RUDY
It’s 12:27 at night and I’m in Tyler’s bedroom. I’ve been obsessively watching his digital alarm clock ever since I got here about three hours ago.
“I reckon we should go now,” I say.
“Are you sure? Is it late enough?” Tyler pauses the movie we’ve been watching, Return of the Jedi. An image of Princess Leia looking nervous but determined freezes on the screen. I know exactly how she feels.
“I think so. If it’s still too busy out we can wander around till it quietens down.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to watch the Sarlacc battle one more time for motivation?”
“Seriously, Ty, if I watch that scene one more time I’ll be strangling Jabba the Hutt in my sleep!”
Tyler laughs and gets up from the bed, checking himself in the mirror on his wardrobe door. As usual, he’s wearing black skinny jeans and a vintage rock T-shirt, The Clash this time. He pulls on a black hoodie. “Do I look OK? Should I be wearing a balaclava or something?”
“We’re only going to make some art, bruv, not rob a bank.”
Tyler shrugs. “All right, all right. Just wanted to check the urban art etiquette. This is all new to me.”
“Yeah, well, it’s all new to me too.” I get up and put on my jacket. I notice Tyler’s brainstorming notepad open on his desk. REASONS TO KEEP BELIEVING is written in his spidery scrawl across the top of the page.
“What’s this about, Ty? Don’t tell me you’re losing your faith in the force.”
He shakes his head and his cheeks flush. “No. It was from this YouTube video I was watching. One of those motivational ones, you know, where a dude’s vlogging from his garage in LA just so he can get his bright yellow Ferrari in the back of the shot.”
“I thought we vowed never to watch those kinds of videos.”
Tyler gives a sheepish grin. “I know b
ut I was desperate.”
“What? Why?” I feel a stab of concern. I hate the thought of Tyler feeling anything other than his normal super funny and positive self.
He sighs. “I don’t know, it’s just that sometimes my dream life feels so far away from my real life, you know. Even with doing all my shifts at the café, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to afford a proper mixing console.”
“You will.” I take hold of his arm and give it a squeeze. “Trust me, you’re so talented. You just have to believe.”
“Thank you. That’s exactly what Trey Masters said.”
“Trey Masters?” I look at him quizzically.
“The YouTube guy with the bright yellow Ferrari.”
“Oh my days! Come on, let’s get out of here.”
We head down to the seafront, then I lead Tyler up a darkened side street just past the new pier. The street is full of restaurants but they all closed hours ago. The only sign of life is a homeless person curled up beneath a duvet in one of the doorways. I feel a sharp twinge of sorrow as I think of how cold he must be.
“Where were you thinking of doing it?” Tyler whispers.
“Just up here, on this wall.” I lead him over to a large wall at the end of the street. It’s the back of a theatre and, with no windows or doors, it makes a great canvas. One half is covered in paste-ups by one of my favourite Brighton street artists, Dynamite. As I look at his work I feel a stab of nerves. Should I be pasting on the same wall as him? This is another aspect of urban art etiquette I’m not sure about. Would it be like some upstart pub band crashing the stage at the O2 when Jay-Z’s playing?
“You OK?” Tyler says, able as always to read my every mood with his spooky Jedi mind powers.
“Yeah, I’m just not sure if I should do it here.”
“Why not? It’s perfect.”
“Yeah, but it’s right by that.” I point to Dynamite’s work.
“So? I think yours will look great next to it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” He takes hold of my arm. “Come on, sis, it’s time to feel the force.”
I give a nervous laugh. “OK then.” I glance quickly up and down the street. It’s still completely deserted. “You keep watch. Let me know the second you see or hear someone.”
I take my picture from my backpack and carefully unroll it and hand it to Tyler. Then I prise the lid from my pot and start slapping paste all over a patch of the wall. Laughter echoes up from the seafront and my stomach does some weird kind of backflip.
“Someone’s coming,” Tyler whispers.
“Give me the picture, quick.” I grab it from him and stick it to the wall. Once again, in my rush, it goes on slightly uneven. The voices and laughter get closer. Crap! “Quick.” I grab Tyler by the hand and pull him into a darkened doorway. “Let’s wait here till they’ve gone past. I still need to do my tag.”
“And we need to get a photo of it, remember?” Tyler whispers.
The voices get even louder and Tyler holds me.
“What are you doing?” I hiss.
“Making it look like we’re making out,” he hisses back. “We don’t want to arouse suspicion.”
“We don’t want to arouse anything,” I say and we both crack up laughing. Tyler and I are so like brother and sister the thought of anything happening between us is truly gross. He’s right, though: kissing couples in Brighton doorways totally blend in.
The people walk past and their voices fade away to nothing.
“Right, quick,” I say, barging past Tyler with my paste can. I quickly coat the picture, then I take my spray paint from my bag and start stencilling the final touches, being careful not to spray over the edges of the card. When that’s finished, I do my tag.
“Awesome!” Tyler exclaims behind me. I turn and see that he’s taking photos on his phone.
“None of me,” I say.
“I only got your back. It looks really cool. You’re just this shadowy figure.”
I check his phone. He’s right. It does look really cool. The light from the top of the building is spilling down on the picture, illuminating it perfectly, but I’m in the shadows, a darkened silhouette. It makes me think of the apple in art class earlier and the really cool shadow it created on the table.
We stand there for a second looking up at the picture.
“I just got a funny feeling,” Tyler says, “in the pit of my stomach.”
“What did I say about getting aroused?” I joke.
Tyler laughs, then he turns to me. “It’s this,” he says softly, casting his arm around at the picture and me and the darkened street. “It’s like you’ve finally made it. You’ve actually started to live your dream.”
I link my arm through his and pull him close to me. “Don’t worry, bruv. It’ll be your turn next.”
CLEMENTINE
I wake to the sound of Mum and Vincent having an argument. Annoyingly, they’re arguing just loud enough to wake me but not loud enough for me to be able to hear what they’re saying. I creep over to the door.
“Kids … time … unfair…” I hear Mum say.
“Yeah well, one of us has to earn a living,” Vincent’s voice gets clearer as he passes right by my door.
My skin prickles with anger. Why does he keep picking on Mum for something he made her do?
“I … children … agreement.” Even in an argument Mum remains contained. She somehow manages to raise her voice without actually raising it. I wonder what would happen if all of her pent-up tension erupted one day. I hope it doesn’t happen inside our perfect show home, as I have a feeling it would be seriously messy.
I hear the front door slam and leap over to my window. Vincent is pacing down the street towards the seafront. He’s wearing a brand-new tracksuit and trainers. He started running recently, which I’m using as further evidence that he’s having a midlife crisis. Previous evidence includes his buying a two-seater sports car and dyeing his greying hair with something called Man Up.
I go back over to my bed. I wonder if it’s possible to have a pre-life crisis. It definitely feels as if I might be having one. My life hasn’t even really begun and I have no clue what to do. I sit cross-legged and rub my aching feet. After my initial nerves faded last night I took Bailey’s advice and really let go and lost myself in the music. It was so cool dancing so close to the sea. Even though it was pitch black outside, just knowing it was out there was enough to calm me. I know I gave the audition my best shot. Now I just have to wait and hope that I’m cast in the show. But what if you’re not? What if you’re not good enough? my inner voice whispers, like some kind of cartoon bad guy.
I pick up my phone, in need of a distraction. As soon as I check my Instagram I feel a flutter of excitement. “@FierceUrban wants to send you a message” one of my notifications reads. I click ACCEPT and open the message. It’s a photo. In it, a shadowy figure is standing in front of a wall displaying a piece of street art. The picture is slightly obscured but I can make out the face of a young black woman in the painting. I zoom in on the photo. There’s what looks like tape in a cross-shape over her mouth and a jet-black teardrop on her cheek. Although the woman in the picture is different from the one in the piece of art I saw yesterday, there’s no doubt that it’s by the same artist. I zoom back out. It’s impossible to tell if the figure standing in front of the picture is male or female. All I can see is that they’re dressed in black, with their hood up. They’re holding something in their left hand. It looks like a spray can. A shiver of excitement runs up my spine. It must be the artist. And @FierceUrban must be their Instagram account. Then I see that they’ve written something beneath the photo in the message: Over to you…
Over to me? Now I’m properly excited. Is this some kind of challenge? Do they want me to write another poem? But I’d need to get a clear photo of the artwork to do that. I’d need to see the whole thing. I scan the message for any mention of a location but there’s nothing. Then I notice a splash of
colour in the corner of the photo, the edge of another piece of street art that looks really familiar. I click onto my profile and start scrolling through my pictures until I find it. It’s a piece by a Brighton street artist called Dynamite, a picture of a refugee kid blowing bubbles in the shape of peace signs. My skin tingles as I wrack my brains trying to remember where I saw it. I have a feeling it was when I was on my way home from dance class one night, down one of the side streets that cut up from the sea. I check the time on my phone. Thanks to Mum and Vincent’s argument it’s still really early. But I’d never have time to get down to that end of the seafront and back unless…
I quickly pull on some jogging bottoms, a hoodie and trainers. As I race out of my room I almost crash into Mum on the landing.
“Oh, Clem, you’re up early.” There are dark rings under her eyes.
“Yes, I, uh, thought I’d go for a jog.”
“A jog?” She stares at me like I just announced I was off on an expedition to the moon.
“Yeah, I won’t be long, I just fancy getting a bit of exercise. My legs are really stiff after yesterday.”
“OK then. Vincent’s gone for a run too.” Mum gazes numbly into space. “I’ll start getting breakfast ready then. Do you fancy a sausage sandwich?”
“Sure.” I hurry past her and down the stairs.
RUDY
Wednesday is “Breakfast with Mum Day”. I don’t mean it’s one of those official days that comes with its own hashtag, like #TakeYourDogtoWorkDay, but in our flat at least, it’s official. Last year, Mum started stressing that we weren’t getting enough quality time together, what with my school and café job and her shifts at the casino. So, having breakfast together on a Wednesday has become a non-negotiable. The trouble is, we’re always both so tired on a Wednesday morning that to call it “quality” time is definitely questionable.
While Mum makes the coffee I slump over the table. I didn’t get back home last night until two and then Tyler ended up staying for about half an hour, nagging at me to contact the poet. Mum will be even more tired than me though, as she didn’t get in till almost four in the morning and hasn’t even been to bed yet.
Clementine and Rudy Page 4
