The Gaps by Leanne Hall (classic literature list .TXT) 📕

that’s almost as tall as her and try not to worry about making her drive me here.

The suitcase bucks wildly on the uneven front path.

When Dad answers the door I note that he has brushed his hair and ironed his shirt.

‘Come through, come through.’

He has the good sense not to give Mum the guided tour, but I notice her head swivelling, taking in every possible detail. I hope she’s not imagining the alternate future where she and Dad stay together and they can afford a falling-apart house to have all their arguments in.

We pass the spare room that Dad has set aside for when Sam and I stay over, which we never do, and which is where I assumed I would be working on my project.

Dad leads us through the kitchen and out the back door, past the Hills hoist, to the decrepit chipboard shed near the compost heap. He opens the door and gestures like a fancy butler for me to step inside. I raise my eyebrows, because I’m pretty sure this is Jarrod’s reiki room, and you couldn’t pay me to spend time in it.

Nestled inside the shed is the perfect art studio.

The walls are freshly painted white. The floorboards are bare and already paint-spattered, with a threadbare Persian rug at one end. The windows have been washed and cleared of vines, letting in the natural light. There’s an easel and a card table. A beanbag and a milk crate with a water jug on it.

Dad flicks the switch near the door and the overhead light comes on.

‘We got the power fixed,’ he says. His expression is expectant, but my face has stiffened like a plaster cast and I turn away.

It could almost be a proper studio for a proper artist.

It’s too good for me. I don’t deserve it.

Dad starts bustling around the room. ‘You can stick things to the wall…I’ve got to find the old trestle table somewhere in the garage…I found the easel in hard rubbish, which was a stroke of luck.’

Mum leans the roll of paper against the wall. Her arm snakes around my shoulders. ‘It’s perfect, Jez,’ she says. ‘This is very thoughtful.’

She looks at me, and I’m embarrassed to feel my eyes well.

‘Let’s have a cuppa while Chloe unpacks some of her supplies.’

‘Don’t we have to get back?’ I push my glasses up and wipe my eyes. Mum’s shift starts at eight and she has to have dinner before she leaves.

‘We’ve still got time,’ she says and they exit.

I’m left alone in the terrifying white space with my own shaky potential.

I slowly unpack my suitcase—watercolour paints, brushes, masking tape, glue—and run through what I have left to do: pick the image, edit it, get it printed, perfect my hand tinting, and then tackle the final piece. And make sure the entire process is documented in my folio. Every decision and theme and symbol has to be justified and explained. Ms Nouri is big on that.

I’ve looked through all the photos I took on Saturday, my laptop whirring furiously as it tried to cope with the file sizes, and a lot of the pics are darker and gloomier than I’d planned. I didn’t get the lighting quite right and Natalia has disappeared into the background. I wish I could find time to do the photography elective next term; I would love to get better at this.

What amazes me is how calm Natalia looks in most of the frames, when in reality she was shaking all over, about to break apart.

At first I thought it was just the cold, but then I realised it was more than that. It looked like shock, like sadness, like everything bad hitting her all at once. Something was wrong with her, something more than the stress that we’re all feeling. I don’t know her well enough to guess what it could have been, though.

All I could do was crouch next to her and let her know I was there. Maybe I should have asked her what it was about. In the end, we packed up and went to lunch, as if nothing had happened.

I zip up the empty suitcase and check my phone. We need to get moving. I turn off the light and carefully shut the door.

DAY 48

The librarian hands me the stack of books and my knees buckle under their unexpected weight. Somehow I manage to also grab onto the pencils he offers. Pens are forbidden in the State Library Heritage Collections Reading Room, as if they’re used to people forgetting they’re handling rare items and doodling in the margins.

I pick a table next to the wall, right at the back. I’m the youngest person in here by far. To my right a polished woman in hijab pores over a folder full of handwritten letters, in front of me a man with silver hair examines a map with a magnifying glass.

There’s a clock high up on the wall, above the check-in desk. My print won’t be ready to pick up for another two hours.

The photo lab assistant was patient while I decided on paper, explaining the pros and cons of each, and the price per centimetre. I didn’t realise I’d have to pay a rush fee, but I agreed, because I have to spend next week tinting and finalising my piece. I was already too embarrassed by how little I knew about the process.

I could fill the time proofreading the International Studies essay that I rushed through yesterday, but instead I’ve got three hard-to-find Bill Henson monographs in front of me, the sort of thing you would definitely never find at the Morrison Heights public library, and that you can’t even find at Balmoral.

When I crack the first book open, the one that covers Henson’s earlier work, I’m f looded with excitement. The paper is thick and glossy, the images shadowy, deep, inviting.

I turn pages through hazy ballet classes, haughty schoolgirls in straw hats, a lone house in the woods, downturned faces in the