Letters to Leonardo (10 page)

At school the next day I stew over Dave’s call to Aunt Alexa. I hated the sadness in her voice. But I still wanted to yell into the speaker, “I’m not a kid, Aunt Alexa. I have to find her, she’s my mother.” And, “How come you butted out of my life just like everyone else?” I can’t believe it. Mum’s out there somewhere, but nobody, not even her own sister can tell me where she is.

I can’t focus on anything Mrs D says, can’t get comfortable. Why do they make school furniture for jockeys? I’ve seriously outgrown these tables. Without even stretching, I keep touching the chair of the person in front of me; Tina Armstrong, Class Goddess. I pull my legs back under me.

Troy, on the other hand, is deliberately trying to attract Tina’s attention.

“She’s looking hot today.” He signals to me. He sticks out his foot and tries to hook it under the leg of Tina’s chair.

Mrs D hears the scraping and peers over the top of her glasses at us. Troy stops moving and Mrs D goes on talking. Troy sinks lower in his chair. He stretches his legs out too far and the chair slips back. He lands on the ground with a thump that Mrs D can’t miss. She marches across the room and looks down at him, sprawled on the floor.

“Troy Daly! What on earth are you doing down there?”

“It’s Tina. I think I’ve fallen for her.”

The rest of the class groans. Tina looks at Troy and asks, “Do you need a hand?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Tina steps out of her chair. She pauses for maximum impact, then puts her hands together and starts a slow handclap. Most of the class joins in. Troy picks himself up, takes a bow and sits back down.

The whole thing’s pretty funny, but I seriously need to be somewhere else.

“I reckon she fancies me,” says Troy.

“Whatever.”

“Mr Hudson and Mr Daly,” interrupts Mrs D, “perhaps you’d like to let us get on with the History lesson and leave the social chat for lunchtime?”

“Not really,” I mutter. I’m so sick of adults treating me like a little kid – as if what I think doesn’t matter.

Mrs D walks between the lines of tables. She stands over me, hands on hips. “Then perhaps you’d like to get out of my class so I can teach those who want to learn.”

“Fine with me.” I pick up my books and leave.

Troy follows. Twenty-two pairs of eyes watch us leave.

“Let’s hit the water tank.”

I can’t wait to get away from school and all the stuff that they think is important, but doesn’t mean anything at all when you’ve just found out your dead mum is actually alive.

It’s warm – we sit in the shadow of the water tank and talk about Mum.

“How am I going to find her?” I pick up a stone and toss it into the distance, watch it being jolted about as it rolls down the hill on an uncontrolled path that seems to mirror my life. “She has to be somewhere.”

“Dah!” Troy skids a stone off down the hill after mine. “A painter with her talent has to be known to someone,” he says.

He’s right. But who?

At 3.30 we head to Troy’s house.

“No need for our olds to know we got kicked out of school,” he says.

Troy goes straight to the fridge and drags out a chocolate cake. Why can’t Dave ever cook anything like that?

We sit at the dining table munching on cake and washing it down with huge glasses of milk. Angie walks in with a group of giggling friends.

“Our basketball went over the fence,” she says to Troy. “Could you get it for us, please, please?” She has Troy’s freckled smile.

“Sure.” Troy gets to his feet and Angie’s friends look at him as if he’s some kind of superhero.

When he comes back from his rescue mission, Troy shows me what he’s done on his History assignment. He’s up to about letter number six. And they’re all really good – full of detail about his life and family. Not so easy for me – half my family’s missing and as far as the life bit goes, there’s not much I want to tell about that.

Troy’s mum breezes in from work. She’s the counsellor with the never-ending smile. “Like something else to eat or drink, boys?”

I’ve just finished my second massive slice of chocolate cake. “No thanks, Mrs Daly. If I don’t eat my tea, Dave’s likely to go into a panic and think I’ve turned anorexic or something.”

Troy’s mum raises an eyebrow when I call my father by his first name, but she doesn’t say anything.

“Thanks.” Troy pushes his empty plate forward.

Mrs Daly slides another huge slab onto the plate and sits it in front of Troy. “Make sure you eat your tea too,” she says and heads out the back door.

Troy has never been known to refuse food in his life.

“Mum’s an awesome cook, isn’t she? Bakes on weekends when she’s not working.” Troy’s lips are coated in cake crumbs.

I trace my finger around the rim of my empty plate.

“You thinking about your mum?”

I nod. “Wonder what she’s like now. If she’s okay?”

These questions won’t leave me alone; they keep crashing around in my head.

Dear Leonardo
,

Your portraits are unreal. You get how people are with each other – every line and head tilt is always just right. And the emotion. Will I ever be able to translate what I see, how I feel, into art? I guess it’s what I do at the water tank
.

Looking at your paintings lets me block out everything else. It’s like getting transported to a whole different world – one where I can be an observer and not have to get involved in what’s going on
.

The more I discover, Leo, the more I want to know about you and your work
.

Think I’m becoming obsessed – at least that’s what Troy reckons
.

Matt

Mrs D is boring and sarcastic but she does have her good side. I guess we all do.

She has organised an excursion.

Good for two reasons. One, we get out of class for a day. Two, it’s to the museum and the art gallery.

“Why can’t we go somewhere decent like Luna Park or Movie World?” asks Troy.

“Art gallery, Troy,” I say. “We’re going to the art gallery.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Apart from the fact I thought you liked painting, Mum’s an artist. Maybe I’ll get some info on her.”

Troy grins. “Good point.”

On the bus I’m in my own universe, thinking about Mum, when an apple hits me on the back.

“Wake up, Hudson,” says a voice from the back seat. It’s Skink. That guy is a pain. They call him Skink because he darts around everywhere and flicks his tongue as if he’s catching flies. Thinks it’s cool or something.

Bits of food and paper bags fly around in all directions. Mrs D yells, “That’s enough!”

Nobody pays attention. The missiles keep coming. I duck and just miss copping an orange in the head.

Troy has a Vegemite sandwich in his hand, ready to take aim, when the bus screeches to a halt. He’s thrown against the seat in front – right into the back of Tina Armstrong. The sandwich ends up in her hair. She picks it out and tosses it back at Troy. “What do you think you’re doing, bird brain? Leave me alone, will you?”

The bus driver, a man with axe handle shoulders, storms up the aisle. Everyone stops, sits back down and hides their missiles behind their backs.

“I’ve had enough of you lot,” he bellows. “Any more of this, I’ll throw you all off the bus and you can walk back to school!”

It’s pretty quiet for the rest of the trip.

First stop’s the museum, where the most exciting exhibit is Phar Lap, the famous racehorse who died in America. Hard to believe he’s dead. Looks so real.

“Isn’t he awesome?” I ask Troy.

“I dunno, he looks stuffed to me.”

Tina Armstrong gives Troy another one of her scathing looks. Later, when Troy’s at the toilets, she asks me, “Why do you hang around with that loser? You’re not like him at all.”

“You don’t know him. He’s cool, really. We’ve been best mates since we started school.”

“Pity he hasn’t grown up since then.” Tina moves away as Troy comes back.

“Were you two talking about me?” he asks.

I shrug and Troy punches me on the shoulder. “She’s got the hots for me, hasn’t she? Yes! I knew she wouldn’t be able to resist me.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t get carried away, mate.”

“Hey, look, she’s heading off that way.” Troy points towards the prehistoric exhibition. “Let’s follow her.”

But before he can pester Tina again, Mrs D calls the class together and herds us back on the bus. I can’t wait to get to the gallery.

Once we arrive we’re not allowed off the bus until the driver has bellowed another warning. “Back here in two hours or I go without you.”

We pile off the bus, up the gallery steps and through the glass doors. “Australian exhibits, this way.” Mrs D guides us to a large room full of works by contemporary Australian artists.

Each picture has a brass plate engraved with the name of the painting and its creator. Troy stops at an abstract painting by an artist who looks like he used to be a pasta chef. There are noodles of colour splashed together on the canvas; it doesn’t look like anything real.

“Dunno what people see in this stuff,” Troy says. “Reckon my little sister could do better.”

I walk to the back of the room to look at one of the Archibald Prize finalists – a portrait of a famous comedian. It’s pretty cool.

After I’ve finished, I turn to look at the painting on the opposite wall. It’s a picture of Katherine Gorge. I recognise the colours. And the style.

I let out a whoop. Mrs D turns around. Troy rushes over.

“Hey, check this out,” I say.

It’s an amazing painting. Massive cliffs either side reaching down to this trickle of water that seems insignificant. The colours are so real and so deep you can picture yourself there. There’s a small brass plate next to the painting.
Deepest Fears
by Zorina.

Zora – short for Zorina? I’m sure it’s her. Why isn’t her last name on the plaque? Why is she making it so hard for me?

Troy stares at the painting. “Your mum?” he asks.

I nod.

“She must be good to get put up in a place like this.” Troy looks around the room. “We should drag Tina over here. Do you reckon she’d be impressed?”

“No,” I say. I don’t want anyone to know that my mum did this.

“But it’s so cool,” Troy argues. “I thought you’d be proud.”

“I am.”

But at the same time, I’m thinking, what if she is crazy? What if everyone finds out I have a loony in the family?

“What am I going to say to Tina if she wants to meet her?” I ask Troy.

“I guess you’re right. Still, I reckon it’s pretty cool, having a famous mum.”

“It would be even cooler if I knew where to find her.”

“Maybe you could write to the gallery and tell them you are doing a school project on her. They might have some info,” says Troy.

“Good idea.”

All the way home in the bus my mind is buzzing with thoughts about Mum and her paintings. I can hardly believe it. Not only is Mum alive, she’s a well-known painter – sort of famous, in fact.

The minute I get home, I race upstairs, turn on my laptop and write:

Dear Sir/Madam
,

I loved
Deepest Fears
by Zorina which I saw in your gallery
.

I have decided to do a school assignment on this great artist and was wondering if you could tell me about her
.

Does she live in Australia? How old is she? Does she still paint?

I would really appreciate any information you can give me for my project
.

Thanks a lot
.

Yours truly
,

Matt Hudson