Free Letters to Leonardo by Dee White

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

12
    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