A Small Free Kiss in the Dark Read Free Page B

way he drove the footpath-sweeper.
    After Archimedes left, Billy and me went under the bridge near the station to sleep. At night you can’t tell the river’s muddy, and even though the sky is too full of light to see the stars you can see the city reflected in the water. It looks a bit like a painting Vincent van Gogh did before he cut off his ear. It’s called Starry Night over the Rhône River . It isn’t his most famous picture but it’s still my favourite. If I painted something as beautiful as that I’d never try to cut my ear off. Starry Night over the Rhône River makes me feel peaceful. On the hot night in March when I drew the wedding birds, I went to sleep trying to remember how many stars Vincent had painted in the sky. That’s the bit I visualise over and over again: Billy and me lying on the river bank, looking up at the sky. I hear water slapping against boats and I smell mud and water and hamburgers.
    One day I’ll make a plan and go to France. I’ll go at night and lie on my back and look up at the stars Vincent looked at. Maybe they’ll be the same stars Chief Seattle saw, only he was over in America. Anyway, I’ll look at them with both eyes at the same time because then I won’t be nearly twelve years old and I’ll know exactly who I’m supposed to be.

3
    Overcoats and
irises
    Sometimes I like to work things out backwards, from the end to the beginning. Like how come I wasn’t in the Queen’s Elbows on that freezing winter night in July. I’ll bet if you did a survey, most people would say it was because I was sleeping in the skip on the demolition site that used to be a hospital. But that was only the last thing. It’s a bit like when you ask someone where they come from and they tell you what suburb they live in, but if they kept on going backwards they would end up inside their mother’s belly or maybe even somewhere before that, like in the ocean or deep space or in God’s mind. I think this means that everyone really comes from the same place. People who believe in reincarnation could just keep on going backwards for infinity.
    When I was backwards thinking about the third of July, I only got as far as Michaela. She’s not in this story much, but she’s the reason why some of the things happened. And besides, I want to tell you about her because, if I don’t, no one else might. It’s possible that Billy and Max and me are the only ones left who knew her.
    When Billy found out I was interested in art he started taking me to the State Library. I didn’t think we’d be allowed inside, but Billy said the library belonged to the people and we were the people. He said even if you didn’t have a coat you could still go there, as long as your hands were clean. That was in the rules, he said, and he could prove it because someone wrote them down when they first built the library. It was warm in there and it was free, and Billy showed me where to find Ned Kelly’s original armour and a book worth twelve million dollars. But the best things were the books about art.
    That’s how we knew Michaela, because she worked at the library and wore a badge with her name on it. Michaela was beautiful. Her legs were way long, which must have come in handy for reaching books on high-up shelves. Her hair was cut short and spiked like boys’ hair. It was the colour of autumn leaves and it wasn’t fake colour, either, because the hairs on her arms were the same. The freckles on Michaela’s nose and cheeks looked like the flecks of colour Monet painted on pictures of his lily pond, to represent sunlight, and she wore seven studs in one ear and none in the other. I liked that because I like odd things. I think it’s because of my eyes. Michaela’s eyes were both the same. They were the colour of the irises in Monet’s garden.
    I don’t know if Michaela had any kids. She looked old enough to be married but she didn’t wear any rings on her fingers. Sometimes I wondered what it would be like if