So Feral! (9 page)

Deep vermillion turned to an even deeper purple.

Giggles exploded around the class.

Miss Alperstein peered down her long nose. ‘Zis is a choke?’ she rasped.

Choke? Yes, thought Arthur. With embarrassment. But out loud he said, ‘Joke? No, Miss Alperstein.’ Arthur held his breath, watching as Miss Alperstein’s nostrils flitted in and out like swarming killer bees. He waited for a tearing-paper sound.

It didn’t come. But things
did
get worse.

Miss Alperstein turned Arthur’s drawing round to show the class. ‘Zis is an attempt to draw ze human form.’

Arthur inspected the floor. It was the only safe place to look.

‘It’s passetic! Only great artists can do justice to ze naked body.’

Michelangelo, Cézanne, Raphael! thought Arthur. He knew them all.

‘You sink you are clever, Arssur. Let me tell you somesingk, you are not a great artist. You are just a silly little boy …’

How dare she! Arthur stood there, fuming.

‘… who knows nussingk about art!’

I know more about art than you ever will, thought Arthur, his mind racing. I know my sketch is good. Sort of like a Renoir. Besides, you’re the one who started this with your
round
and
firm
.

‘Arssur! Face ze class. Class! Arssur vill model for ze rest of ze lesson.’

To model and not to draw. Nothing could be worse! Arthur groaned, turning to his classmates.

‘Notice ze dark hue in ze cheek area.’ Miss Alperstein was smiling now. ‘Ze vay ze light bounces off ze glistening nose. And class, I especially vont you to notice zat ze smugness has left ze face!’

‘Vitch,’ muttered Arthur, careful to emphasise the ‘v’. He felt like a butterfly pinned to a specimen board.

Miss Alperstein was rubbing her hands together. ‘Zis vill be good practice for next veek.’

Arthur cringed, thinking, Don’t tell me I have to do this again?

‘Next week?’ he croaked.

‘Ya,’ said Miss Alperstein. ‘For ze art competition. Mister Van der Mill is ze judge.’

‘What art competition?’ asked Arthur, instantly alert.

Miss Alperstein ignored him. ‘Is there a prize?’ asked Alison.

‘Ya.’

Arthur’s ears pricked up.

‘Ze competition is being sponsored by ze local paper. First prize is fifty dollars.’

Fifty bucks! thought Arthur. Imagine the art supplies I could buy with that!

‘Ze local paper vill interview ze vinning artist and do a story on zem.’

Dad works for the local paper, thought Arthur. But that won’t matter, he decided.

‘What do we have to draw?’ he asked.

‘A self-portrait!’

That afternoon, Arthur lay on his bed, sucking his thumb. He’d always sucked his thumb (especially when he was thinking) but only when he was at home. And only in the privacy of his own room.

Arthur was thinking about the self-portrait competition. About
winning
the self-portrait competition. He’d give anything to win it. The money would buy paints and brushes. He needed these for his art. And to Arthur, his art was his life.

The question was, how should he do his self-portrait?

Miss Alperstein said to be
original
. I can be original.

Miss Alperstein said to be
adventurous
.

I can be adventurous.

Miss Alperstein said to be
daringk
.

How can I be daring? thought Arthur. A pencil sketch? Bo-r-rring! A painting? Nah! Too predictable. It needs to be something that Miss Alperstein can
touch
and
feel
and
smell
, like she’s always going on about in class.

Arthur removed his thumb and inspected it. Now it was pink and wrinkly, as though he had been sitting too long in a bath. The top of the nail
was clean — translucent even — but the underneath wasn’t. Using his teeth Arthur prised out the dirty bit. He smelt it.

Ugh!
Chook poo! From fertilising the garden.

Arthur searched frantically for some chewing gum, at the same time spitting into his wastepaper bin.

The phlegm struck the bin’s lining, smearing like a smashed egg.

Arthur inspected his other nails, unimpressed at finding a chook poo playground. That’s the last time I help in the garden, he vowed.

Arthur scraped the gunk from under each nail then wiped it on the bin liner. He held out his hands. Now, that’s better!

Back on his bed, Arthur returned to his problem.

Maybe he should do a model in clay?

Not very original.

A soap sculpture?

Nup!

Deep in thought, Arthur’s thumb popped back into his mouth.

‘Sprunnggg!’
yelled Rex, his brother, pushing open the door. ‘Hey, Art! Who’s a big
baby?’

Cursing himself for not shutting the door properly, Arthur said, ‘No, I’m not!’

‘Only babies suck their thumbs,’ Rex taunted.

‘I wasn’t sucking my thumb,’ insisted Arthur.

Rex snarled, like a greyhound when it sees a rabbit. He planted his face in front of Arthur’s,
flattening him against the bed-head. ‘Looked like it to me.’

Arthur glanced at the offending thumb. It looked like any ordinary thumb except for one thing. ‘It’s a cure! Saliva contains chemicals that destroy bacteria and viruses,’ Arthur informed his brother, waving his thumb under his nose. ‘I thought it might cure this.’

‘Thumb Ugly,’ said Rex, moving away to stand at the door.

‘Not Thumb Ugly,’ said Arthur. ‘The Evil Pea.’

‘What’s an evil “P”?’ asked Rex, his voice tinged with irritation.

Arthur grinned, waving his thumb around. ‘The Evil Pea. You know, my wart.’

Calling his wart the Evil Pea had started as a joke, but it wasn’t really a joke. It was an attempt to get in first, before others did some name-calling of their own. You see, the Evil Pea was no ordinary wart. It started at the base of his thumb and extended towards the joint, looking like a minimountain.

Once, Alison had tried to read Arthur’s palm. ‘Some of your Life Line is missing,’ she’d announced, grimacing at his wart. ‘You should be dead!’

The memory of it still made Arthur cringe.

From the safety of the doorway, Rex yelled, ‘It’s humungous! You look like you’ve got leprosy.’

In answer, Arthur picked up a pen from his bedside table and began to draw.

Rex watched as Arthur drew a circle around the wart. After that, he gave it a smiley face. When Arthur bent his finger, it winked.

‘He
llo,’
said Arthur, waggling his thumb.

‘Gross!’ cried Rex, and left.

Arthur chuckled. That trick always worked. Settling back on his bed he pondered again on his self-portrait. With vacant eyes he stared into space, thinking, What to do? What to do?

The space grew blurry. Arthur blinked to clear it, then realised he was staring at his bin liner. Avery speckled bin liner.

Arthur looked from the liner to the Evil Pea to the bin liner, wondering what to do for his self-portrait.

And then, he knew!

‘How’re you going with your competition entry?’ his mother asked that night. ‘Fine,’ said Arthur.

‘What are you going to do?’ asked his father. ‘It’s a secret,’ said Arthur.

‘In other words, my dear brother, Art, has no idea,’ blurted Rex.

‘Yes, I do. I’m doing a collage. It’s French. Means making a picture from bits and pieces.’ The look Arthur flung at Rex was intended to cut him down to size, but by the look of Rex, it only grazed a little.

‘You think you’re such a hot-shot artist,’ he said. ‘The cats on the telly paint better than you.’

Arthur knew the program. Cats dipping into pots and painting with their paws. It was one of those things you had to see to believe.

‘Those cats
are
pretty good,’ said Arthur’s father with a laugh.

‘But you’re good, too, Arty darling,’ said Arthur’s mother, stroking him on the head.

Arthur resisted the urge to purr. Standing up, he said to Rex, ‘I know what I’m doing for my self-portrait. But
you
will have to wait to see it.’ He left the room, intent on starting his project.

In the garage, Arthur grabbed a large, flat piece of board. Running his hand over the surface, he tested to see if it was smooth enough to work on. It was. Arthur lugged the board back to his room. With practised fingers he stretched out a sheet of paper and pinned it down. Next, he cleared his desk and lay the board on top.

At last he was ready to start.

‘First I’ll draw the outline, then I’ll collect the stuff, then I’ll glue it down,’ said Arthur, talking to himself. The thought of the finished product made him smile.

But what to collect?

Arthur walked over to his bedroom mirror and peered at his reflection. Staring back was a boy of twelve: brown hair, brown eyes, brown freckles
and
a brown scab on his chin from when he’d bit the dust skateboarding.

Maybe I should paint the whole piece of paper brown and call it ‘Arthur Brown’ he thought. Nah!

He looked again, closer this time.

Arthur noticed that his left eye was bigger than his right — it popped out of its socket like it was in a permanent state of surprise. The right eye looked sleepy. Arthur turned his head, checking out which side was his best. This proved quite depressing. Depending on how he was facing, he looked like either an electrified eel or a droob.

Maybe front on is best? thought Arthur, turning his face to the mirror.

Front on
was
best — for his eyes. But not for the stupid cowlick that swirled into a question mark on his forehead.

Arthur frowned. Cowlick! What a dumb name! He’d never been out of the city in his life! Arthur spat in his fingers and tried to smear it down, but the hair stood to attention like it, too, was electrified.

Arthur wondered if there was something his mother was not telling him — something like he was electrocuted at birth.

From hair, Arthur moved to his ears. These weren’t too bad, except, like his eye, one stood out more than the other. Arthur pushed on it to keep it down. As soon as he took his fingers off, it sprung back.

Arthur turned from the mirror in disgust, thinking, I look demented.

And then Arthur remembered something. Something a teacher had told him. ‘The sum of the boy is worth more than the sum of all his parts.’

Arthur thought of all his parts — his demented parts. He wondered how they could possibly combine to show him at his best.

Finally, Arthur concluded that the best way to do his self-portrait would be with him on his side, as though he was lying down.

That way, he thought, my hair is meant to stick up, one eye will be squashier, and no one can tell if my ears match or not.

With great relief he turned his mind to the problem of the parts.

What parts make up me? he wondered.

Without realising it, his fingers crept to his thumb. They began to stroke. ‘Hello, Evil Pea,’ said Arthur with a smile.

Because he hadn’t washed his hands properly, the Evil Pea smiled back.

‘I’ve got it!’ said Arthur. ‘This self-portrait must be me. Warts and all!’

Arthur reached for his pencil and paper. With firm strokes he drew himself lying on his side.

Miss Alperstein leapt into his head. ‘Class! Note ze asymmetry of ze face!’

‘Watcha up to, Art?’ asked Rex, barging into Arthur’s room and finding him sitting on the floor.

‘Nothing,’ said Arthur, putting down the scissors and waiting for Rex to leave.

Rex inspected the stuff scattered on the floor. He frowned. ‘Whatcha got the petroleum jelly for? And the tissues, and all this cooking stuff?’

‘Nothing,’ said Arthur, managing to widen his eyes with innocence. ‘Just mucking around.’

Arthur prayed that Rex would get fed up and leave.

Rex did not get fed up. ‘Mucking around? Not! Tell me. Or I’ll tell Mum.’

Arthur sighed. ‘Okay. I’ll show you.’ Then he scowled. ‘Breathe a word to anyone and you’re dead.’

‘Promise,’ said Rex.

Arthur remembered his father saying that Rex’s promises were as useless as a bridle for a goose, but what could he do? ‘Sit down,’ he said in resignation, ‘and I’ll show you.’

What Arthur was trying to do was make a scab — similar to the one on his chin. Scooping out a glob of petroleum jelly he put it into a plastic bowl. Next, he picked up the red food colouring and added four drops. He also added a pinch of cocoa.

‘Spill that on the carpet and you’re in trouble,’ warned Rex.

Arthur ignored him, stirring the ingredients together into a dark red goopy paste. When it was all mixed in Arthur plucked a tissue from a box and carefully separated it into two sheets.

‘Hey, Art,’ said Rex, holding up the thin sheet of tissue paper. ‘I could blow my nose through this and cover you with snot!’

Arthur continued to ignore him, and carried on with his work. Ripping out a small rectangle of tissue, about 10 by 7 centimetres, he placed it on his bare leg. Then he covered it with petroleum jelly. With intricate care, Arthur moulded the goopy tissue, making sure its sides sat higher than its middle.

‘Looks like something from a horror movie,’ said Rex.

Arthur smiled, then said, ‘Watch.’ Using a toothpick, he smeared the dark red goo into the centre of the shape. He sat back, inspecting his handiwork.

‘You trying to pretend you’re hurt, are you?’ asked Rex. ‘Won’t work.’

Arthur squinted at his leg. It was sort of foul-looking, but not quite disgusting. He sighed. It had worked in the
Make-Up for the Stage
book.

‘It looks fake,’ taunted Rex. ‘Blood’s not that colour.’

Arthur scrutinised his ‘wound’. ‘I guess you’re
right. It does look fake.’ With an exaggerated sigh, he said, ‘Pity. I was hoping to give Mum a fright.’

Rex stood up, a satisfied look on his face. ‘I’m always right,’ he said, floating from the room without a backward glance.

After Rex left, Arthur picked up the box of cocoa. He dusted the cocoa around the edges of his fake wound, rubbing it in to make the ‘blood’ dark.

I want it to look real, thought Arthur, so real that Miss Alperstein faints. Serve her right!