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

standing on every possible f lat surface. Yelling, laughing, taking selfies, dancing, drinking, screeching, hugging.

‘Who do you know in this exhibition?’ I grab onto the back of Natalia’s jumpsuit so I don’t lose her.

‘Not me, my sister!’ she yells back. ‘Some of her friends are in it.’

We reach the main room and the situation is no better. The gallery itself is even more crowded, if that’s possible. Natalia wiggles expertly into any possible crack between bodies until we reach a trestle table holding drinks. My bulky backpack—holding a change of clothes and toiletries to take to Dad’s house—is almost torn from my back.

‘Two beers,’ she says to a surly guy in a fisherman beanie. He points at the handwritten $3 sign and she hands over a note. He doesn’t ask us for ID.

‘That’s Liv, over there!’ Natalia points but I have no way of singling her sister out. I can’t see anyone that looks like her. Two girls push us away from the drinks table. One of them manages to give me a split-second once-over (verdict: not impressed) before lunging for more booze. We ricochet into the centre of the room.

Across the topography of heads I can see that there’s art on the walls, even hanging from the ceilings, but no one seems to be paying any attention to it. Instead they’re people-watching, checking each other out, making sure everyone knows they’re having a great time, or else playing at being mysterious and poetic. No one looks over twenty-five, but no one looks as young as us either. There are designer mullets, shaved heads, big beards, round glasses. Overalls spattered with paint, clever tattoos, ripped mesh.

Natalia’s face shines. You can almost see her feeding off the crush and the heat and the noise. Her eyes flick back and forth and I can’t quite put my finger on it, but she’s acting a little off. But maybe this is what she’s like out of school, at night, at a party. ‘What a bunch of freaks. Come on!’

She drags me over to her sister, who is in the far corner with a group of friends. ‘Chloe, this is my dear darling sister, Olivia.’

Natalia hugs her big sister. Olivia is ridiculously good-looking, of course, but also looks very different to Natalia—she’s bony and pale, with spiky black hair. ‘Liv, this is Chloe, the artist I was telling you about.’

I glare at Natalia and she pokes her tongue out.

‘I’m not a real artist,’ I say apologetically.

‘Well, neither am I.’ Olivia smiles at me. ‘I couldn’t explain any of this crap to you. How do you know my little sister?’

‘School.’

‘Ah, commiserations, my friend.’ Olivia holds up her bottle to clink against mine. If you look beyond the differences she has the same aqua eyes as Natalia, and the same level of charisma. That direct look that makes you feel like you have all of her attention. ‘I also survived that hellhole.’

She turns to Natalia. ‘Listen Tal, I have one request of you this evening. Don’t be a dork, okay, and don’t drink too much.’

‘That’s two requests.’ Natalia does her private-school princess smile but Olivia manages to stare her into submission. There’s a first. The girl next to Olivia leans forward and kisses Natalia on the cheek and they start talking.

I’m left hanging, not sure if I should look at the art or try to introduce myself to someone. I settle for a combination of looking soulfully into the distance and smiling vaguely in the direction of Olivia’s intimidating friends. I take a long swig of beer.

The short, quiet guy next to me asks, ‘What medium do you work in?’

‘What?’ I lean down to hear him better. He’s also dressed like an off-duty fisherman and I don’t know how he can stand to wear a beanie in this sauna. A hot flush starts to creep over my cheeks and I know I need to slow down on the beer or my face will start to look like a tomato.

‘Your art…what medium?’

It takes me a few seconds to figure out what he means.

‘Oh. Photography, I guess. What’s, uh, your medium?’

‘These are all my pieces.’ He gestures around us; his fingers are covered in tiny tattooed symbols. We’re in a corner of small ceramic objects: arranged on shelves and hanging up on fine wire above our heads. I look closer.

‘What are—oh.’

Each shape is a vulva. We’re surrounded by pottery vulvas. Some with jagged teeth, some leaking red, others with thin sausages of clay balanced in them.

Olivia’s friend looks at me, waiting for my response.

‘They’re very powerful?’ I say, and that seems to satisfy him. Someone pushes past us, squishing our bodies close together. I can feel heat from the vulva artist’s front and a stranger’s drink trickling down my shoulder.

‘Have you shown your work anywhere?’ He lifts his drink to his mouth. Maybe I’m imagining it, but it seems like he presses even closer. His head is right at my chest level.

‘No. I’m still learning.’ I definitely don’t imagine the way his gaze slides away. He scans the room over my shoulder, looking for someone better to talk to. Natalia has been drawn even further into Olivia’s group of friends. It looks like she’s telling them the funniest story they’ve ever heard.

‘You know, at high school.’ I say it loudly enough to be heard over the din.

The vulva artist steps slightly away from me, appraising my underage body afresh.

‘Take my advice,’ he says, without checking that I want any, ‘work hard on your folio. You could even take a few years after school to develop your practice, then apply for VCA. It usually takes a few attempts to get accepted, but you want to start your career on the right foot. Of course, I was accepted straight from high school, but that’s quite rare—’

‘Thanks, but I’m not sure I even want to do it as a career.’ I stop his flow. I don’t think Mum intended me to take an academic scholarship just so I could bunk