So Feral! (10 page)

But a second inspection led to another long sigh. It looked more like rocky road than a scab.

Well, thought Arthur. I’ll just have to use a real one.

His fingers ran over his chin, feeling the hard crusty surface of the scab. Going to the mirror, Arthur lifted up its corner to see what was underneath. The edges were glistening pink but towards the middle was creamy yellow.

Arthur hesitated about ripping it off. But only for a second. If Vincent van Gogh could cut off an ear for art, losing this pus crust was nothing! Besides, picking off a scab could feel good — like scratching an itchy bite till it bled.

The scab flicked off easily, doing an impressive tumble-turn to land, pus up, on the floor. The freshly opened wound stung for a minute, but Arthur ignored it. Picking up the scab he laid it carefully on the board and glued it onto his sketch.

Arthur stood back, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction. He had donated his first body part.
Getting the rest should be a cinch. Arthur grinned. This self-portrait was turning out to be fun!

Back in the bathroom, Arthur got down to some serious work. First he grabbed some scissors and hacked off his cowlick, leaving an angry crop of bristles behind.

Makes me look tough, thought Arthur as he ran his hand through the stubble.

Pasting the cowlick down, curl over instead of standing to attention, gave Arthur a great deal of satisfaction. Scratching his scalp over the paper gave him even more. Dead skin cells flaked down, sticking onto the hair and glue like scales. Arthur thought of Miss Alperstein, whose own hair sometimes reminded him of the workbench in a fish and chip shop — all grease with flecks of batter.

Back in the bathroom, Arthur used cotton buds to dig out the sticky yellow clods of wax from his ears. Using more glue, he stuck them on his picture. Arthur stood back. He laughed. His self-portrait was really taking shape!

With hot steam and a determined push, Arthur ejected the blackheads off his nose.

They look like maggots hatching, he thought with satisfaction.

Using a fine paintbrush, Arthur stuck them down one by one. He liked the way the nose and forehead were flecked with black, but something was missing.

I know, he thought.

Arthur tilted the board and leant it against his bedroom wall. Kneeling in front, his face ten centimetres from the paper, he squeezed. The zit was stubborn. But so was Arthur. Like a champagne cork it finally popped, hitting the paper with a bloodied splotch.

Bullseye, thought Arthur, ignoring the protest from his forehead.

Arthur stood back to examine his portrait.

‘Skin’s troppo,’ he said out loud.

‘Sure is.’ Rex’s voice made Arthur jump. ‘Watcha doing, Art?’ asked Rex from the doorway, scowling at Arthur’s spotty face.

‘Nothing,’ said Arthur.

‘You look dreadful. Like you’ve got eczema, measles and chicken pox all rolled into one.’

Arthur looked in his bedroom mirror. He smirked. ‘More like scabies. You’d better keep your distance, Rex. I hear it’s highly contagious.’

Again, Rex shot from the room. Again, Arthur laughed.

On the morning of the judging of the art competition, Arthur arrived at school late, long after everyone else. He wanted to hang his portrait without anyone seeing it was his. Mr Cardaway the librarian was there, but he was nearly blind and didn’t count.

‘Your entry’s late,’ said Mr Cardaway when Arthur bustled in.

‘Sorry,’ said Arthur, crossing his fingers. ‘Is that a problem?’

Mr Cardaway smiled, his eyes crossing as they fought to focus. ‘Wouldn’t want to miss a shot at that prize, would you?’

‘No, Mr Cardaway,’ said Arthur.

‘Go hang up your picture,’ said Mr Cardaway. ‘Then hurry to class.’

Arthur sighed with relief.

‘Who’s your teacher?’

‘Miss Alperstein.’

Mr Cardaway’s eyes rapidly uncrossed. ‘Ahhh. The lovely Miss Alperstein. Run along.’

‘You’re late,’ said Miss Alperstein as Arthur hurtled through the door. ‘Detention at lunchtime.’

So much for the lovely Miss Alperstein!

‘But what about the self-portrait competition?’ asked Arthur. ‘It’s being judged at lunchtime.’

‘You should have sought of zat,’ said Miss Alperstein, turning away. ‘You vill write vun hundred times, “I must not be late.” Bringk it to me ven you finish.’

‘Yes, Miss Alperstein,’ said Arthur, going to his desk and thinking unlovely thoughts about the lovely Miss Alperstein.

Carlo slid over to give him some room, whispering, ‘Bad luck, Art.’

Arthur nodded.

‘What happened?’ asked Carlo, pointing to Arthur’s cropped hair and crater-face. ‘Stick your head in a blender?’

‘Hah, hah. Very funny.’ Arthur ran his fingers through his fringe, saying, ‘It needed a trim. Did you get your portrait in?’

Carlo smiled. ‘Sure did. You?’

Arthur nodded.

Carlo sat high in his seat and beamed. ‘Mum says mine’s good enough to win.’

Arthur tried not to smile. ‘Mums say dumb things like that.’ Carlo’s face fell, so Arthur patted him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t be too disappointed. The prize will go to a deserving winner.’ Arthur’s pat finished with a thump. ‘Me!’

The first half of the day dragged. No one felt like working. They were all distracted, most dreaming of what to do when they became fifty dollars richer.

Finally, the buzzer rang.

‘Lunch,’ announced Miss Alperstein. ‘Ven you have finished eatingk, ve vill begin the judgingk. Ze buzzer vill ringk to let you know.’

Arthur found it very hard to eat. He kept glancing at his watch, praying for the buzzer.

But when the
brrrrr
summonsed everyone to the library, Miss Alperstein called for Arthur to go back to the classroom to write his lines. ‘And Arssur, if it’s not neat you vill do it again.’

I’ll give her neat, thought Arthur, lining up five pens and taping them together. ‘I’ll give her art.’ For writing five lines at once was an art-form in itself.

Pulling out a sheet of paper Arthur began to write.

‘Who won?’ Arthur whispered to Carlo as the class filed into the room. ‘Me?’

Carlo shook his head. ‘Sorry, Art.’

Arthur clenched his teeth. With a half-grimace half-smile he asked. ‘You?’

Carlo hung his head. ‘What would Mum know?’

‘Then who?’

‘Vot a vunderful collection of portraits,’ interrupted Miss Alperstein. ‘Ve sank everyvun for enteringk.’

‘Who?’
hissed Arthur, getting impatient.

Carlo shrugged but still he did not answer.

‘It is a shame ze vinner has decided to be anonymous,’ went on Miss Alperstein.

‘Anonymous?’ Arthur whispered to Carlo.

Carlo nodded. ‘Someone entered without a name. Threw Miss Alperstein and Mr Van der Mill into a spin. Ten minutes was wasted trying to decide if they’d be disqualified or not.’

A name! Arthur slumped in his chair. He’d forgotten to sign his portrait! And without a name …

‘What about the money?’ Arthur asked with an urgent voice.

‘Still there. They don’t know who to give it to.’

That’s easy, thought Arthur. I’ll just tell everyone that the self-portrait’s mine. And they can hand over the money!

Just at that moment Miss Alperstein held up the winning entry and placed it on an easel for the class to see.

It was definitely Arthur’s.

‘Looks like someone’s tipped a whole lot of junk on a piece of paper and called it art,’ said Carlo.

With a hushed voice Arthur said, ‘It’s a collage. I did it.’

Carlo’s eyes went ping!
‘You?’
he asked.

‘Me,’ said Arthur. ‘It belongs to me.’

Carlo looked at Arthur like he didn’t believe him.
‘S-u-ure!’

‘It’s true. It’s mine. And so’s that prize money.’ Arthur raised his hand, saying, ‘Excuse me, Miss Alperstein.’

Miss Alperstein did not answer. She was standing in front of the easel, lost in thought.

Arthur tried again. ‘Excuse me, Miss Alperstein. That portrait is …’

‘Ze sad singk about not knowingk ze vinner,’ interrupted Miss Alperstein, ‘is zat zay vill not be able to be interviewed for ze local paper.’

Interviewed?

Arthur’s tummy flip-flopped. He’d forgotten about the paper! He’d forgotten about his dad.

Arthur looked at his self-portrait, thinking, If Dad sees this, he’ll have a fit!

Miss Alperstein bent down, screwing up her eyes as she examined the portrait. ‘Pity. Zey vill not be able to explain how zey did it.’

Carlo nudged Arthur in the gut. ‘Go on. If it really
is
your portrait, tell Miss Alperstein how you did it.’

Arthur swallowed. He’d been so caught up with creating something different that explaining his technique hadn’t entered his mind. He hesitated.

‘Didn’t think you did it,’ taunted Carlo.

At that moment Alison piped up, asking, ‘Why did it win, Miss Alperstein? I don’t understand.’

‘Ahhhh!’
said Miss Alperstein, grabbing a ruler to use as a pointer. ‘I’ll see if I can explain.’

‘This’ll be good,’ Arthur whispered to Carlo, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest.
‘She
can explain and I’ll interpret.’

‘I’m all ears,’ said Carlo, unable to keep the doubt from his face.

Miss Alperstein turned to the self-portrait, her eyes sparkling. ‘Now, zis is a vork of art!’

Everyone sat rigid in their seats, straining to understand.

Using her pointer Miss Alperstein began. ‘Note ze attention to detail.’ The ruler hovered over the nose. ‘Ze shadow under ze nostrils.’

‘Boogies,’ whispered Arthur with a wink at Carlo.

‘Ze tear nestled in ze corner of ze eye.’

‘Early morning eye scum.’

Carlo’s eyes grew wider and wider.

‘Ze heaviness around ze mous.’

‘Dribble.’

This was too much for Carlo. He exploded, desperately trying to cover his laugh with a coughing fit. ‘Sorry, Miss Alperstein,’ he spluttered.

But Miss Alperstein was in full swing and didn’t hear. She leant forward. She sniffed. ‘Vun can actually smell zis portrait. It makes ze nostrils zing!’

‘Footie socks,’ mumbled Arthur.
‘After
training.’

Carlo’s coughing fit got worse. He looked like an artist’s palette — all crimson and blue — as he fought for control.

‘Zis is a vork of art!’ announced Miss Alperstein again, her face glowing with admiration.

‘A Work of Art,’ agreed Arthur.

‘Vot ve haf here,’ said Miss Alperstein, her voice hushed with reverence, ‘is a collage of abstract realism!’

‘Vot ve haf here,’ whispered Arthur in his best European accent, ‘is a pile of putrid pickings!’

By now Carlo had developed breathing problems and his eyes were streaming.

Arthur’s cheeks were aching from serious over-grinning.

Miss Alperstein halted. She glared at the two boys. ‘You are a pair of ignoramuses. Vot vould you know about art!’

More than you think, thought Arthur, with a defiant look.

Ignoring both of them, Miss Alperstein swung back to the easel. ‘Zere’s an aroma of bare feet.’ She inhaled deeply, her face up close to the paper.

‘Phwo-arr!’
said Arthur, waving his hand under his nose to show that even he thought his toes smelt bad.

Miss Alperstein spun round. She looked at Arthur, her eyebrows raised in question. ‘Toenail gunk,’ said Arthur.

Miss Alperstein dropped the ruler. Leaning forward she whispered, ‘Arssur?’

Even losing out on fifty dollars couldn’t stop Arthur. He gave the slightest of nods.

Miss Alperstein ran her fingers over the collage as though in a daze. In measured tones she asked, ‘Ze brown stripes on ze pants?’

‘Skid marks!’

What does Andy Shermin’s bum have in common with the new neighbours?

Nah! It’s not what you think. They’re not both round and pink.

Got you wondering?

Andy Shermin is the kid brother of my best mate, Tezza. Andy’s one of those kid brothers who likes to hang around, the sort who deserve to be stuffed and mounted. Only kidding. But it’s true, he never leaves Tezza’s side. Me either. We’re sort of like Siamese triplets.

Which is why I wasn’t impressed when James — James Bartholomew — came on the scene. I mean, have you ever heard of Siamese quadtuplets?

James is one of them city kids who moved next door to the Shermins a month or two ago. Actually, it was six weeks, three days, seventeen hours and twenty-two minutes, but who’s counting?

City slickers! They act like they’re a different race — come from a different planet. They even
look
different.

Mr Bartholomew must’ve been doing a Tasmanian tiger impersonation when the wind changed direction ‘cause his face is permanently twisted into a snarl. Then there’s young Mrs Bartholomew.
Perm-a-grin, I call her. But it’s not a real smile — it’s a charity collector’s smile. And old Mrs Bartholomew, or Helmet Head, on account of how much hairspray she wears. She has this way of looking at you where she shakes her head and finishes every sentence with,
You poor darling
.