Outer Space / Carry On | Michael Clifford AU

11.

Somehow, despite my best attempt to look like I was in a rush to get to lunch, Mrs Benson cornered me on the way out of art. Michael caught my eye, perhaps wondering if I wanted him to wait for me but I nodded, silently telling him to go ahead.

"Alice," Mrs Benson smiled. Today she was wearing a long swishy skirt with white polka dots all over it. "I've noticed that you've made little progress on your major work for this semester."

Bless Mrs Benson for being too polite to say that I'd made no progress on my major work for this semester. If my Maths teacher made a similar comment, I'd probably hand her a sarcastic remark. She continued on: "Is there something bothering you? Something going on at home?"

"No," I shook my head. "Just suffering from a bit of artists block."

She nodded sympathetically. "It happens to the best of us. Sometimes you just need to find the right strike of inspiration."

That wasn't going to happen anytime soon. The creative parts of me were barren, I was sure of it. Mrs Benson looked up to The Girl with the Lion Head that she'd insisted on having on display and reminded me how much she loved that piece. "I can't wait to see what you create next, Alice." 

All I could do was I nod politely and thank Mrs Benson for checking in on me, trying not to think about how our major works were due in four weeks and I had a big fat nothing. While The Girl with the Lion Head wasn't finished in my eyes, it was something. I doubted Mrs Benson would accept a blank canvas.

Once out of the classroom, I walked past Eloise and Kelsey, and headed towards the grass instead. Michael was just popping the lid onto a black marker when I sat down. He turned the rock over to show me his handy work. My blue lettering was still there, only it was now edited to read: Reserved for Michael Clifford AND ALICE IN WONDERLAND.

"Nice touch," I mused, wrapped up in the idea that Michael now thought of this as my spot too.

"What'd Mrs Benson want?"

I sighed. "She was asking me about my major work, or my lack of a major work." Michael slid the marker back into his pocket. "Have you started on yours?"

"Maybe," he shrugged.

"Are you going to tell me about it?"

He shook his head, his lips holding in a smile like it was some kind of secret. "Nope."

I laughed out of frustration. "You're kind of annoying, you know?"

Michael laughed. "I'm inclined to agree with you."

He'd somehow conjured up a notebook and was scribbling away on the pages with a pencil. Nothing ever held Michael's attention for long, I'd noticed. He was always moving or drawing or doing something. The only time I'd seen him completely still were those moments he'd lay on the grass alone and look up at the sky, and even then I was sure I could see thought bubbles growing above his head and then popping all over his face like confetti.

I suddenly had to ask. "What are you looking for when you're looking up at the sky?"

His hand slowed but didn't stop moving completely. "What makes you so sure I'm looking for something?" The pencil finally stopped, and Michael looked up at me. "Maybe it's the sky who is looking for something."

"What colour is your hair?" I leaned a little closer. It was as if my cognitive function had a loose screw and all of the questions I'd wondered curiously but silently were suddenly slipping out everywhere. "What are you hiding underneath all that blue?"

Michael leaned closer towards me. It was the closest we'd been to one another, and I still wasn't sure if I was seeing him clearly. "You ask a lot of questions."

"And you give no answers."

"Tell you what," he said, a little bit of light shining through his eyes. "You paint a portrait of me with whatever colour you think my hair really is. If you're right, I'll tell you."

"And if I'm wrong?"

"Then you'll have to paint another one."

I dismissed the idea. "It won't work. I won't be able to paint you." 

It wouldn't work because the other night, when Dad and Joan got back from the hospital, I'd tried to paint Michael because I thought maybe, just maybe, he'd be the one to make it all come back: the colours, the magic, me.

It didn't work, though, and there was no way in hell I was telling him about all of this. I was scared about what he might think if he knew I was thinking about him when he wasn't around.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Oh, so now you're asking," he grinned. "I guess so."

"You said you know nursery rhymes, right? I need to know, like, the best three or four. I'm trying not to suck at being a big sister."

"Did your Mum have the baby?" The words must have stumbled out before his head caught up, because moments later his pale skin was flushed with embarrassment. He looked back down at the sketch pad in his lap. "Shit, sorry, Alice. She's not your Mum... Sorry."

"It's fine," I brushed off with a shrug, because as much as I liked Michael there was no way I was getting into all of that. You can't take those kind of secrets back. "Joan didn't have the baby but we thought she was in labour the other night. It was kind of exciting, but kind of scary. I don't know anything about babies. What if I drop it or something?"

He ripped out of a page of his sketchbook and handed it to me. There were the names of what I guessed were nursery rhymes: Rock-A-Bye Baby, Wynken, Blynken, and Nod, The Walrus & The Carpenter all written in a calligraphy of sorts, floating above a little drawing of moons and stars and a baby carriage, with lashings of midnight blue watercolour and streaks of silver ink around the stars.

"You're not going to drop her. Or him," he said matter-of-factly. I was still staring at the piece of paper.

"You drew this just now?" I was still in disbelief, not even factoring in that it wasn't possible he did this know unless he really was magic and had watercolour and ink seeping from the pores of his fingers.

The boy with blue hair shrugged shyly. "Nah, a few days ago. I was just waiting for the right moment, I guess." He breathed out. "Sorry, is this lame? I just thought... I just thought." he shrugged again, meanwhile I was swallowing down the smiles that kept trying to skyrocket out of my body.

He'd been thinking about me when I wasn't around too.

they're so cute i want to die