Free Nona and Me by Clare Atkins Page B

always stay at hers. There’s always the promise of the pool, or pizza, or a party to go to.
    I try to explain. “There’s nothing to do out here, Mum.” I see the hurt in her face and add, “It’s nothing personal. If we lived in town …”
    â€œWe can’t move into town, Rosie. You know that. This house comes with my job, and anyway … I wouldn’t want to. This is our community, remember? Our
family
. Our home.”
    I know she’s hinting at what I said about Nona. I quickly backtrack before she can segue into a lecture. “Yeah, I know. Forget about it. I didn’t mean it.”
    But I did.
    *
    I stay over at Nick’s. To my relief, he keeps his word and it is all innocent kisses and cuddles. We snuggle up in his bed and watch
The Simpsons
again. In between episodes, I ask, “Why do you like this show so much?”
    â€œYou don’t?”
    â€œYeah, I like it. But it’s kind of old, isn’t it? When was this made?”
    â€œIn the ’90s. Or maybe the ’80s.”
    â€œExactly.”
    He’s slightly defensive. “I just think it’s funny.” He hesitates, then adds, “The animation’s clever. The drawings, you know? I used to draw cartoons when I was little. I mean, mine were crap compared to this, but …”
    I’m surprised. “Do you still draw?”
    â€œKind of … it’s not exactly drawing.”
    Nick leans over the side of the bed and digs into his bottom bedside drawer. He unearths an A4 scrapbook and holds it out towards me. The cover is blank. “Open it.”
    I do. The book is jammed full of photos of graffiti. There are tags, portraits, murals, stencils. The whole lot. I see his anticipation, the nervousness in his face. I put the pieces together. “You did these?”
    â€œSome of them.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œWhen we lived in Sydney. Before I got caught and banned for life.”
    â€œIs that what Selena was talking about when she said you did worse stuff than fridging?”
    He looks kind of cagey. “In a way.”
    I leaf through the pages, stopping at a photo of an enormous tag. The letters are outlined in black. They take up an entire wall. Inside them, there’s an explosion of colour. At the bottom of the wall, the artist has painted empty spray-paint tins, made to look like they’re lying discarded on the footpath. I trace the letters with my finger, unable to decipher the stylised writing.
    â€œWhat does it say?”
    â€œNicked.” He’s watching me closely. “Do you like it?”
    â€œI do.”
    I keep looking, and stop again a few pages later. “This one is amazing.” It’s a photo of a black and white stencil, simple but clear. It shows a muscle-bound boxer standing over a guy he’s knocked out. Nick grins. “You’ve got good taste. That’s Muhammad Ali smashing Sonny Liston. But it’s not mine.”
    â€œOops.”
    â€œIt’s by an artist called El Chivo. Most of his stuff’s in London, but there’s a bit here.”
    â€œHow do you know that?”
    He shrugs, but doesn’t answer.
    I say, “You’re full of surprises, Nicked. I never knew you were into art.”
    â€œI don’t know if this qualifies as ‘art’.”
    â€œSure it does.”
    â€œYou’d never see it in a gallery.”
    I look through the album again, more closely now. I find three more by Nicked. “This is a gallery.”
    I see pride in his face, but he shakes his head. “Yeah, but it’s not real art, not like your stuff.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œI saw that landscape you did in the school art show last year. The watercolour one. It was awesome. The colours were so bright. So real. I felt like I was there – but wearing polarised sunnies.”
    I’m amazed he noticed. I’m amazed he remembers it