Letters to Leonardo (5 page)

I roll my eyes. He has to be kidding.

“What’s with the
Dave Hudson is a liar
? Why would you write something like that?”

I just about choke on my words. “You figure it out.” I bolt to my room and turn on my laptop.

I key in Scott Reesborough’s email address. I copy the message I sent to Kathryn Armain, paste it into the body of the email, delete the part about going to school with Zara and press “send”. Dave knocks on my door at 9 pm and says, “We need to talk about today – properly. Are you ready?”

“No.”

“If you’re too tired to talk, you’d better put your light out and get some sleep.” I can hear the carefully controlled anger in his voice. According to Rosenbaum, “A parent should never lose their cool in times of conflict.”

“Fine!”

I turn off the light, but I don’t sleep. Unanswered questions about Mum swirl around in my head then disappear into blackness.

When the alarm goes off I leap out of bed to check my emails. Nothing from Scott. I sit for ages, staring at the screen – trying to “will” a message to come through. After a while everything goes out of focus. I let my mind wander through the information maze that’s been scrambling my brain ever since I opened that letter, wondering if I’ll ever find my way out.

Dave opens the bedroom door. “What are you doing, Matt? It’s time for school and you haven’t even had your breakfast.”

I move to block his view of the laptop screen. “I’ll get some fruit before I go.”

“Make sure you do. You need to eat properly. Rosenbaum says junk food’s the worst thing for a growing body.”

He would, wouldn’t he? “Don’t worry about me, Dave. You don’t want to be late for work.”

“What’s with this ‘Dave’ all the time?”

“What’s with the ‘Matt’?”

“It’s your name.”

“So?”

Dave throws up his hands. “I’ve got an early appointment, but we’ll talk when I get home.”

Unlikely.

As soon as the front door slams, I go to the kitchen, shove three choc-coated muesli bars in my pack and race out the door, just in time to catch the bus.

At school everyone’s talking about our water tank art. It’s got a few of them asking questions about Dave too. Good.

First period is History. Just my luck! We’re supposed to hand in our first two letters – and I don’t have anything. Nothing I’m prepared to share anyway.

Somehow, Troy has talked Mrs D into letting him use Frankenstein as his “significant person”, providing the letters do what they’re supposed to. We have to “demonstrate an understanding of what life was like for our ‘subject’ and tell them about our modern world”.

First thing Mrs D does is call for volunteers to read out one of their letters. Troy’s hand shoots up.

“Teacher’s pet,” I whisper.

“Just sharing my talent,” says Troy.

“Yeah, right. Trying to impress Tina Armstrong more like it.”

“So?”

Mrs D interrupts. “Troy, seeing as you’re the only volunteer, perhaps you’d like to start.”

Troy takes his letter to the front of the class. He stands in front of Mrs D’s table. Troy winks at me and starts reading. His voice is loud and clear. He doesn’t even look nervous.

“Dear Frankenstein (Don’t mind if I call you Franky, do you?), Like me, you were misunderstood …”

Brad Jenkins and Damon Knox groan.

“Poor Troy,” says Tina, teasingly.

Troy grins at her and keeps reading.

“Frankenstein wasn’t even your name. They just called you that because that’s who created you. Dr Victor Frankenstein …”

Troy rolls his R’s for effect and Tina giggles.

“Overactor,” I mouth at him.

He takes a bow.

“Please continue, Mr Daly.” Mrs D is on her feet now.

Troy stands up straighter.

“Wouldn’t like to have been in your lounge room, Frankie. Apart from the fact you would have killed me or, at the very least, caused me severe pain …”

“I’ll be causing you pain, Mr Daly, if you don’t take this seriously.”

“Sorry, Mrs D.” Troy reads: “I wouldn’t have liked to have been in your lounge room because back in 1818, when you were created, there was no television.”

“Man, that would have been dull,” says Brad.

Troy talks over the top of Brad.

“Wouldn’t be able to build you today, Frankie. You just can’t get your hands on body parts that easily. Need permission to do that sort of stuff. Anyway, thought I’d recreate you so you could see what life is really like for me. I made a Frankenstein mask and wore it around the house. Freaked my little sister, Angie, out so badly she had nightmares and I’ve been banned from wearing your face any more.”

“You don’t need a mask. You’re butt ugly anyway,” Damon yells out.

The whole class erupts into laughter, including Troy. Even Mrs D has a wry smile.

“So, Mr Daly, what else do you think your ‘historical character’ needs to know about your life?”

Troy keeps reading.

“I wrote this letter on my computer because that’s what we use now instead of paper and pens. I guess people were pretty poor back in England in 1818, but we have plenty to eat where I live today. I live in a place called Brabham and go to Brabham High School and I have the coolest History teacher. Her name is Mrs D.”

Brad and Damon make vomiting noises. I shake my head.

“Thank you, that will do, Mr Daly. Perhaps we’ll hear from someone else now.”

Mrs D looks directly at me and I look down.

“How about you, Mr Hudson?”

“I’m still doing the research, Mrs D. There’s heaps to learn about da Vinci’s life.”

“A week, Mr Hudson. You have a week. If your letters aren’t to me by then, you’ll have to do them in your lunch hour.”

“Yes, Mrs D.” I think about Troy’s letter and a chuckle escapes.

“I don’t think you’re taking this seriously enough, Mr Hudson. You do want a pass in this subject, don’t you?”

“A leave pass,” Troy whispers.

I try not to laugh, but I can’t stop myself. Troy cracks up too.

Mrs D’s face goes red. “I’ve had it with you two disrupting my class.” She glares at me. “Get out! Go and explain to Mr Madden why you haven’t done your homework.”

She’s
had it with me! “Whatever.” I pick up my books and storm out the door. Troy grabs his gear and follows.

He races to catch up with me. Suddenly serious, he says, “What’s with you lately?”

“Nothing.”

Troy puts his hand on my shoulder. “You’ve been weird for days. One minute you’re laughing, the next you’re going off your nut.”

“It’s nothing you’d understand.”

“Try me.”

“No, thanks.”

We arrive at the door to Madden’s office. It’s closed.

“Stuff it,” says Troy. “Heck of a nice day for a swim.”

It makes me think back to when I was little and Dave was selling land near the ocean. When there were no buyers around he’d say, “Heck of a nice day for a swim”. And we’d go down the beach. I don’t want to think about Dave. But I don’t want to see Madden either. I’ve got enough hassles in my life.

“Let’s go.” I walk away from the headmaster’s door.

Troy pats me on the back. “I can’t believe it. You’re wagging two days in the one week. Something has seriously got to you, hasn’t it?”

“Maybe.”

“What?”

“Nothing I can’t figure out.”

Troy punches me lightly on my arm. “Doesn’t look like you’re getting very far.”

I slam my pack on the ground. “Everything’s a joke to you, isn’t it? If I lived your perfect life, I’d probably think things were pretty funny too. But I don’t.”

“Settle.”

“Forget the swim.”

I run home, straight to my room where I turn on the laptop.

Finally, there’s an email from Scott Reesborough.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Looking for Zara

Matt,

Might have something for you.

Would rather talk to you than email. Ring me on the number at the bottom of this email.

Scott

I pick up the phone and dial.

“Hello, this is Scott Reesborough. How can I help you?” says a deep voice.

This man could be the lead I’m looking for – the missing link – the person that can help me find my mother. But what if he doesn’t know anything? Then I’ll be right back where I started. I suck in air, try to stop my voice from shaking.

“Er … Mr Reesborough. It’s Matt … Matt Hudson. I got your email.”

“Call me Scott,” he says. “I understand you’re after information about your mother. I haven’t seen her for a long time. Didn’t know she’d married or had kids.”

“Kid – there’s just me, as far as I know.”

Scott seems to hesitate – as if he’s not sure how much to say. “Matt, I don’t know where your mother is,” he says eventually.

It’s in his voice. He knows more.

“Can you tell me anything about her that might help me find her?” I grip the phone tightly.

Scott pauses again. “She had some problems when I knew her.”

Problems, what does he mean by problems? A dad like mine who lies – or worse? Is she in trouble with the law? Maybe she’s been hurt in an accident? My head spins with all the possibilities. “What sort of problems?”

“I don’t think it’s really up to me to go into it. But she had some sort of breakdown after we finished school. She went away for a while. To a place called Barry Hill.”

A breakdown! It’s worse than I thought. I don’t want there to be anything wrong with her. I want her to be perfect. “How come she went there?”

“It’s a psychiatric hospital.”

“Why, what was the matter with her?” A cloud of doubt settles around me like a thick blanket.

“I’m not really sure what her problem was. She was always highly strung – artistic, you know. I saw her for a while after she came out of Barry Hill, then she moved away without telling me.”

“So, what can I do about finding her?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe you could try Barry Hill. It’s possible she went back there at some stage. Or they might have some record of where she went. She was a wonderful woman, your mother – but not easy. Never easy.”

I hang up slowly. I have somewhere to start looking, but what am I going to find? And why do people keep talking about Mum in the past tense, as if she really is dead?

Dave gets home around teatime. He walks in just as I’m finishing off my last ham and cheese toastie. He looks at my empty plate and raises an eyebrow.

“I hope you had vegetables.”

“The plate was covered in them.”

“Good. Growing teens need to keep up their vitamins.”

“Yes, Rosenbaum.”

Dave frowns, pours himself a water and sits down at the table.

“I hope you realise that what you did at the water tank was wrong.”

I refuse to even look at him. “Whatever.”

“You can’t go writing things like that about me in public. The whole town would have seen it.”

“Good.”

Dave clunks his glass on the table. “If you’ve got a grievance with me, it should stay in our own home, not be broadcast.”

I shrug and head to my room.

“Don’t you care that you could have ruined my reputation?”

“You did that all by yourself.”

I slam the door behind me.

The last thing I hear before I put the music up loud is Dave’s plaintive voice. “We’ll have to talk about this sooner or later.”

Dear Leonardo
,

This is the letter Mrs D says I have to write to pass Year Nine History. So, here goes
.

We wouldn’t travel by cart from Vinci to Florence – like you did when you were my age. Where I live, the horse and mule have been made redundant as a form of transport. We drive cars – the ones that you did plans and drawings for way back when. Today we build them and ride in them
.

Not being married mattered a lot more in your day. You could never be Ser Piero’s heir because he wouldn’t marry your mum. So he apprenticed you to Verrocchio, which ended up being a good choice. Your talent would have been seriously wasted if you never got to paint
.

In my country, these days, people don’t care if your parents are married or not – in fact, heaps of people don’t even bother; they just live together
.