LIVING VOICE
Karen West chooses to write on subjects that are challenging and often confronting, which will hopefully one day assist in creating change. She has had stories and articles published in magazines that include the Woman’s Day and health magazines, and is a published author of adult nonfiction.
With her background in marketing, public relations and promotions, Karen enjoys public speaking and dreams of travelling around Australia, visiting schools and encouraging young people to have a voice.
She lives in Leura in the Blue Mountains, west of Sydney, with her husband, daughter, and the family’s little rescue dog, Willow.
Living Voice is Karen’s first young adult fiction novel. She was awarded a Varuna PIP (Publisher Introduction Program) to further develop the book.
Published by Hybrid Publishers
Melbourne Victoria Australia
© Karen West 2018
This publication is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced by any process without prior written permission from the publisher. Requests and inquiries concerning reproduction should be addressed to the Publisher, Hybrid Publishers, PO Box 52, Ormond, VIC 3204.
First published 2018
| ISBN: | 9781925272871 (paperback) |
| 9781925282566 (ebook) |
Cover design by Art on Order
Cover photo by Svitlana Sokolova
In memory of David M. Abouav
PART ONE
Chapter One
MS BENETTI TOLD us to study the classroom window. The thought of painting a boring window didn’t excite me – I wanted more from the lesson. ‘View this exercise as a chance to paint beyond what you see,’ she explained, handing out sheets of paper. ‘It could be metaphoric, surreal or symbolic.’
I understood her instructions, but whenever I had experimented in the past and handed work in, the air left her body as if I had disappointed her again.
Crap, I screamed inwardly, drowning in the pressure, but wanting to be challenged.
‘We’re not going to start with a drawing this lesson. I want you to put the following colours on your palettes,’ Ms Benetti instructed, cradling her pregnant belly in her hands as she wove her way around our easels, her long, colourful skirt swaying. ‘Black, white, yellow and red.’ I waited for her to say blue, but she didn’t. ‘When I say start, you’ll have ten minutes. This is what will secure students a place in art school, Stephanie Conner. If you want to paint what you see, you’re in the wrong class – you should be in photography.’
I raised my eyebrows at Willow. She mouthed, Shit.
I squirted the last colour on the pallet.
‘START! Ten minutes,’ Ms Benetti, repeated, and I went for it, swirling yellow with black, black with red and started painting. ‘Eight minutes,’ she advised. I threw the brush on the table and snatched up another, my hand moving the brush faster and faster, watching the branches moving beyond the window. ‘Six minutes.’ My hand started to cramp as I mixed red with black, adding white, straight black and yellow. ‘Four minutes.’ I had a full-on cramp in the palm of my hand, but I didn’t stop. ‘Two minutes.’ I dropped the brush and started using my hands. ‘Stop now,’ she ordered, but I couldn’t. ‘STOP!’ she repeated.
I swept my hand across my face and backed away from the easel. Awesome resounded in my head. Willow pointed at me and cracked up laughing.
What? I mouthed, following her eyes to the paint dripping off my hands.
Ms Benetti stopped at my easel. For the first time I can remember, I didn’t mind her judging my work. ‘Excellent, Steph,’ she praised, ‘well done. How challenging was that?’
‘Incredible,’ I replied.
‘To be a true artist you must learn to let go,’ she said, handing me a fresh sheet of paper. ‘Take a few minutes to view the work of the student beside you, and we’ll try the exercise again.’
‘Have you worked out what you’re wearing to my party?’ asked Willow as I studied her painting. Her work was excellent, and she knew it. ‘Grant Ford’s going to be there, did Libby tell you?’
I held back from squealing with excitement. ‘Yeah, Libby may have mentioned it.’ Willow rolled her eyes. It was a known fact that I had a crush on Grant. He was the hottest boy, not just in school, but in the metropolitan area.
‘If you’re wearing a dress, Steph, make it short. You have the legs for it. Mine barely covers my ass.’ A rag could cover Willow’s ass and she’d be just as stunning. I envied her natural blonde hair, unblemished olive complexion and striking blue eyes. My skin was pale, sprinkled with freckles, and my eyes were green, or sometimes blue – they changed like the weather. Maybe I was a lizard in a previous life.
Libby Lu, my best friend, was resting her petite body against my locker, twirling strands of her short black pigtail around her finger. She was flirting with a senior boy in sports gear, flashing her long lashes as he went past. She pushed off the locker to follow him, then stopped when she saw me. ‘Hey, Steph,’ she said, pointing to my face, ‘what happened?’
‘I had the most fantastic art class ever.’
Willow strolled up, hugging her leather iPad satchel hard against her chest, flattening her oversized boobs. For someone who was flat-chested, it was annoying that she saw them as a curse, not an asset. Mine were dormant under my skin. ‘I’m grabbing a coffee at the mall if you’d like to come?’ she offered. ‘We’ll help Steph pick out a dress. I’m thinking short and sexy.’
Libby’s face lit up. ‘Yeah, I’ll come,’ said Libby, ‘but I’ve already chosen what Steph’s wearing,’ she informed Willow.
I raised my brows. ‘Hello, you guys, I’m not deaf, and I’m not your personal dress-up doll. I’m heading off home.’
‘Be ready by seven, Steph,’ ordered Libby, ignoring my comments. ‘My dad’s insisting on taking us, and he doesn’t enjoy waiting.’
‘I’m never late,’ I retorted and started walking.
‘Excuse me?’ declared Libby. ‘You’re always late. Seven, and wash the paint from your hair.’
Our house sat high on the hill above Taronga Zoo in Mosman. The house came with my dad’s job as the head vet at the zoo. The house was old, built of timber and sandstone; a weathervane with a rooster sat perched on the roof, and there was an attic. I was born in the lounge room in one of those inflatable swimming pools. My mum’s a marine biologist. If she had her way, I would have been born in the sea.
I opened the front gate to find Mum kneeling in the garden pulling weeds. ‘Hey,’ I called, closing the gate behind me. ‘It’s too hot to garden.’
Mum placed her hands behind her back and stretched. ‘Here,’ she said, holding out her hand, ‘help an old woman up. I made fresh lemonade if you’re interested?’
‘Yum,’ I said, pulling her up, and followed her up the back steps to the kitchen.