After by Sue Lawson Read Free Book Online

though I pulled my stool away from him, Luke’s presence was so strong he may as well have been touching me. I tried to concentrate on what Ms Nugent was saying, but the combination of Luke shadowing my every move and the new information about Grandpa was making it tough. Only the occasional word registered in my brain—negative space, pattern light and shade.
    I sensed movement beside me and glanced at Luke. He was sketching in his notebook. He’d drawn a bird, a mudlark, standing on grass. Its feathers were fluffed up and its head tucked close to its body.
    ‘That’s good,’ I whispered. ‘Seriously good.’
    ‘The bird’s cold,’ said Luke.
    ‘I know.’
    ‘Callum?’ said Ms Nugent.
    ‘Yeah?’
    She frowned. ‘That’s the second time I’ve asked if you’ve worked with charcoal before.’ There was an edge to her voice and a glint in her eye.
    ‘Charcoal?’
    Her nostrils flared as she breathed in. ‘Have you not been listening?’
    ‘Yes, Miss. I mean, no. I’ve been listening.’
    Sniggers broke the silence.
    She folded her arms. ‘I asked if you’d worked with charcoal before.’ Each word was a sentence on its own.
    Had I worked with charcoal? Mum studied art when I was a kid. Every time she tried something new, I got to muck around with it too. I was in about Year One, maybe Year Two, when she was doing charcoal. She’d give me a broken piece and I’d copy her, sketching, frowning rubbing, smoothing. And swearing when I smudged everything with my hand. The whole time Mum was into charcoal our towels, cups, glasses, even toilet paper were stamped with black fingerprints.
    ‘I’ve done a bit.’
    ‘It’s a wonderful medium, though it does tend to smudge.’ The way she lifted her chin as she spoke made me edgy.
    I rolled my eyes. Luke rolled his eyes too.
    Ms Nugent handed out sheets of white paper and sticks of charcoal. ‘Remember, focus on light and shade. Callum, are you familiar with those terms?’
    Was this woman for real? Did she think I was like Luke? I gripped the edge of the table. Luke did the same.
    Ms Nugent slipped a sheet of paper in front of me and handed me a stick of charcoal. ‘Be careful. It snaps easily.’
    No shit, Sherlock, I thought.
    Ms Nugent reeled back as though I’d slapped her. ‘I. Beg. Your. Pardon?’ she screeched.
    What was her problem?
    ‘No shit, Sherlock,’ bellowed Luke.
    I felt sick. I had said it aloud.
    Matt Nugent looked ready to rip my head off. Frewen scowled across the room. Shelley’s open mouth made a glossy O. The only sound in the class was Luke. He rocked back and forth, holding his sides, eyes squeezed shut and face red. Between the waves of his laughter, he repeated. ‘No shit, Sherlock.’
    ‘Luke.’ Ms Nugent’s voice was like a whip crack. ‘Pull yourself together.’
    ‘It was a joke, Miss.’ I knew it was lame.
    ‘Am I laughing?’ asked Ms Nugent, her voice like a dentist’s drill. She pointed to Matt. ‘Ask my son, I have a wonderful sense of humour. Don’t I, Matt?’
    Matt nodded.
    She slapped the paper in front of me. ‘Your big-city-tough-talk does not intimidate me, understand?’
    Big-city-tough talk? What was that supposed to mean?
    ‘If you can’t behave in a civilised manner like the rest of the class, I refuse to teach you.’ She was just about out of breath. ‘Take a text book from the shelf by the window, and start writing.’
    ‘Writing what?’
    ‘The text! Copy it out.’
    I snatched a book from the shelf and slammed it on the table. The bang echoed around the room. I opened Impressionism at the preface and started writing, in 2B pencil, on her perfect white paper.
    ‘Luke, you love drawing. There’s no need for you to do that,’ said Ms Nugent, her voice softer.
    I looked up. Beside me, Luke had A Child’s Book of Monet open on his desk. He shook his head. ‘I said it too, Miss.’ He picked up a pencil and started writing, his face twisted with the effort.
    Mouth tight, Ms Nugent