crack the egg. It floats around on the top without a purpose and yet you can’t get it out.
Troy reaches for a can. “I’m happy to help.”
I scuff at the ground in front of the tank, sending fine dust into the side. “You know what PC Huggins said would happen if we painted the tank again,” I warn him.
Troy shrugs. “We’ll smell that garlic coming a mile off. Have plenty of time to get away. And in any case, what’s the big deal? It’s not as if we’re doing any damage. We’re beautifying the place.”
“Eco art,” I say.
Troy takes the west side of the tank and I take the east, the one where the sun comes up.
Once I have the spray can in my hand, all I want to do is paint. I take Mum’s card from my pocket and rest it against the tank. The sun’s starting to go down. I have to move fast. I spray huge sweeping arcs in deep ochre. The details are etched using a darker can, with a fine nozzle. I stand back to look. Not bad – but it doesn’t have the texture of Mum’s picture. You can get brightness with spray cans, but not detail – not the blending of colours that you get with a brush.
The sky’s the hardest – getting the colour right, the shading, so that when you look at it from different angles, the picture changes – kind of like a hologram.
Troy finishes his art. He’s into sci-fi and he paints an eagle with robot’s feet instead of talons. It’s cool.
We’re sort of like Leonardo and Verrocchio painting together – only not working on the same piece.
Troy looks at my side of the tank and gasps. “Wow! That’s awesome,” he says. “Your mum’s not the only one with talent.”
“Wonder what else I got from her,” I mumble. “Those papers reckoned she was wacko.”
“Everyone’s a bit wacko – even me.” Troy points a spray can at me and presses the nozzle. I duck and run off around the tank with him chasing me.
We collapse in front of the water tank, the almost- empty spray cans at our feet.
“I look more like Mum. I’m nothing like Dave really, am I? I’m brown, he’s blond. My eyes are brown, his are blue.”
“Does your Mum have a face like a cane toad as well?”
I pick up a handful of dust and toss it at Troy. “Very funny.”
Troy flicks back his curly hair. “I’m glad I don’t look like my olds.”
“Can you be serious?”
“Sorry, I’ll try.” Troy pokes out his tongue until it covers his top lip, and makes it look like he has a clown mouth.
I try not to look at him. “Do you reckon I could be crazy like her? You’d have to be crazy, wouldn’t you, to leave a little kid alone in a car, and a house, and a shopping centre.”
Troy jabs me in the ribs. “You’re mad, sometimes,” he says. “But you’re not crazy.”
I wish for once he’d stop fooling around. I grab my cans and stand up. “This isn’t a joke, man. This is my life.”
Troy gets to his feet too. “I know, but you have to chill. You can’t sort stuff out when you’re all worked up.”
“Give me a break. Have you been reading Rosenbaum too?” I feel like chucking a can at him.
“No, but my mum’s a counsellor, remember? Perhaps we could talk to her.”
“I don’t know. Don’t know anything. How do you sort out a mess like this?”
Troy won’t let it go. “You have to talk to your mum, ask her why she did it.”
I know he’s right but the problem is, I have to find her first.
I wag school again and spend the day going over my “Mum” lists, trying to think where she might be.
• In another town?
• In another state?
• In another country?
How am I going to find her? Google! I try Australian search then World search – but there’s nothing. It’s like Zara Templeton or Hudson or whatever she calls herself never existed. But she did. She’s my mother. I try other search engines, but still nothing! I yell my frustration. Punch the wall. But none of it helps. I need a break from all this. So I go into the lounge room to search
Troy reaches for a can. “I’m happy to help.”
I scuff at the ground in front of the tank, sending fine dust into the side. “You know what PC Huggins said would happen if we painted the tank again,” I warn him.
Troy shrugs. “We’ll smell that garlic coming a mile off. Have plenty of time to get away. And in any case, what’s the big deal? It’s not as if we’re doing any damage. We’re beautifying the place.”
“Eco art,” I say.
Troy takes the west side of the tank and I take the east, the one where the sun comes up.
Once I have the spray can in my hand, all I want to do is paint. I take Mum’s card from my pocket and rest it against the tank. The sun’s starting to go down. I have to move fast. I spray huge sweeping arcs in deep ochre. The details are etched using a darker can, with a fine nozzle. I stand back to look. Not bad – but it doesn’t have the texture of Mum’s picture. You can get brightness with spray cans, but not detail – not the blending of colours that you get with a brush.
The sky’s the hardest – getting the colour right, the shading, so that when you look at it from different angles, the picture changes – kind of like a hologram.
Troy finishes his art. He’s into sci-fi and he paints an eagle with robot’s feet instead of talons. It’s cool.
We’re sort of like Leonardo and Verrocchio painting together – only not working on the same piece.
Troy looks at my side of the tank and gasps. “Wow! That’s awesome,” he says. “Your mum’s not the only one with talent.”
“Wonder what else I got from her,” I mumble. “Those papers reckoned she was wacko.”
“Everyone’s a bit wacko – even me.” Troy points a spray can at me and presses the nozzle. I duck and run off around the tank with him chasing me.
We collapse in front of the water tank, the almost- empty spray cans at our feet.
“I look more like Mum. I’m nothing like Dave really, am I? I’m brown, he’s blond. My eyes are brown, his are blue.”
“Does your Mum have a face like a cane toad as well?”
I pick up a handful of dust and toss it at Troy. “Very funny.”
Troy flicks back his curly hair. “I’m glad I don’t look like my olds.”
“Can you be serious?”
“Sorry, I’ll try.” Troy pokes out his tongue until it covers his top lip, and makes it look like he has a clown mouth.
I try not to look at him. “Do you reckon I could be crazy like her? You’d have to be crazy, wouldn’t you, to leave a little kid alone in a car, and a house, and a shopping centre.”
Troy jabs me in the ribs. “You’re mad, sometimes,” he says. “But you’re not crazy.”
I wish for once he’d stop fooling around. I grab my cans and stand up. “This isn’t a joke, man. This is my life.”
Troy gets to his feet too. “I know, but you have to chill. You can’t sort stuff out when you’re all worked up.”
“Give me a break. Have you been reading Rosenbaum too?” I feel like chucking a can at him.
“No, but my mum’s a counsellor, remember? Perhaps we could talk to her.”
“I don’t know. Don’t know anything. How do you sort out a mess like this?”
Troy won’t let it go. “You have to talk to your mum, ask her why she did it.”
I know he’s right but the problem is, I have to find her first.
I wag school again and spend the day going over my “Mum” lists, trying to think where she might be.
• In another town?
• In another state?
• In another country?
How am I going to find her? Google! I try Australian search then World search – but there’s nothing. It’s like Zara Templeton or Hudson or whatever she calls herself never existed. But she did. She’s my mother. I try other search engines, but still nothing! I yell my frustration. Punch the wall. But none of it helps. I need a break from all this. So I go into the lounge room to search
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