Page 55 of Second Verse

‘I wouldn’t worry about that,’ Mrs Simmons said.

‘Well, I have some safeties just in case.’

‘Other art schools?’ the woman checked.

‘No, actually. Business school. My mum insisted I leave myself some options.’

Mrs Simmons laughed. ‘Yeah, they do that. But when it comes to crunch time, I think you should listen to the voice that made the graphic novel. That’s a strong voice. I don’t think it will steer you wrong.’

Norah felt a blush creep up her cheeks. ‘Thanks. Better go.’

Mrs Simmons smiled. ‘See you around, Norah.’

As she left the classroom, the fear began to shake off her. She had made something, and she was proud of it. It was something to cling to. God knew good feelings were not abundant of late.

Part of the problem was living on the same street as Poppy. Norah kept seeing her on the street and having to duck into the house. She didn’t feel good about that, but she couldn’t go back to the hi-and-bye routine they used to have. She just couldn’t. It had to be nothing because it had been everything.

Still, it wasn’t long now. Norah would be leaving soon, as would Poppy—off to music school. She’d probably be very successful. Norah hated her, but she still believed that.

Norah went home, walking carefully down her street, keeping an eye out for heartbreaking arseholes. She was relieved to make it into the house unscathed by fresh humiliation or heartbreak.

Her mother was in the kitchen. ‘Hi,’ Norah said brightly before seeing the look on her mother’s face.

‘Norah, we need to talk,’ she said, her voice cold and stern.

‘Oh Christ, what?’ Norah asked.

Her mother gestured to the kitchen table, where bills and paperwork were piled in one corner, a few red letters peeking out of the stack.

‘You took your coursework in today, didn’t you?’ her mother asked pensively.

Norah nodded quickly. Was that what this was? Was she in trouble because her mother thought she’d missed deadlines? ‘Everything’s in. Art, business studies, English.’

‘OK. Well, I can’t put this off much longer,’ her mother said with a long-suffering sigh.

‘Put what off?’

‘We need to talk about your future.’

Norah got it now. She folded her arms across her chest. ‘I’m going to art school.’

‘Art school?’ Her mother scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest. ‘Art school is pointless, Norah. You need to face up to reality. You need a real job, something stable. Do you think drawing pictures is going to pay the bills?’

Tears of frustration welled up in Norah’s eyes. ‘But I’m good at it. Don’t you care about that? I’mgood, Mum,’ she said.

Funny how someone had been telling her that not an hour ago, and she’d felt uncertain and modest. But now she needed to fight for it. She knew the truth. She could do this.

‘And I love it too, though I don’t imagine you care about that part.’

Her mother’s expression softened slightly, but her tone remained firm. ‘You’re talented, Norah. But talent doesn’t always translate into a paycheque. You need to be practical. You need to think about your future.’

Norah’s anger flared again, but it was mixed with a growing sense of resignation. She wasn’t going to talk her mum around. But she couldn’t give in either. ‘I get it. I do. But I’d bemiserable.’

‘You’ll be miserable if you struggle all your life,’ her mother replied. ‘You don’t know about that yet. I’ve protected you from that reality.’

‘Mum, do you think I’ve just been swanning about in fur coats and diamonds with my head up my arse? I livehere. I know we’re broke.’

‘You think you know what that means, but you don’t know what it is to have the responsibility for it. You’ve never known that,’ her mother told her. ‘But once you leave, it’s gonna hit you hard. That’s what life is. Hard and brutal. Don’t put more on your plate than you need to.’

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