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CATHERINE LOCK
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The Birth of VenusPrologueAs I take out the day’s frustrations on the faded red leather I notice my knuckles are bleeding. I stop to examine the cracked raw skin. As a good martial arts instructor, Norio keeps telling me to wear gloves but, to me, that would be like cheating. How can you truly experience something if you’ve always got a safety net? But to save getting blood on the punch bag I change to kicking - five snaps, five side kicks and one roundhouse, swap sides, and do it again.The rhythm keeps me sane. Concentrating on the flow of energy from my muscles I can forget about how crappy my life is: how Mum and I always argue, how irony has landed me with a sadistic bully and no friends to turn to, and how I’m too stubborn to forgive my Dad, and he’s too stubborn to apologise, even though... Nah. I don’t miss him. Why would I? And anyway he’s obviously not missing me. A particularly harsh roundhouse sends the punch bag crashing against the wall and Norio comes rushing over - he may be ancient but he still moves like a cat. “You not careful, you bring whole gym down,” he says gently, in his strong Japanese accent. “Time you go home.” Home. Great. No place I’d rather be. Well, except school I suppose. God, my life sucks. Norio looks at me sadly. “Do not worry Neko Chan,” he says using my nickname. “Nothing ever stays the same. Always change coming.” Yeah, I could do with a change. No. I need a change. Before something in me snaps. I jump, spin and deliver a final fatal blow to the much abused punch bag. 1A naked woman with long red hair is standing in a giant seashell as it gets washed ashore. From the trees on the right a woman hurries forward with a rich red cloak, and on the left two winged figures blow like the wind. It’s a large painting, like most of the others we’ve seen today in the gallery, sitting in an impressively ornate yet hefty looking frame.It must be a real bugger to move. Lost in the painting I don’t notice until too late that Brent has stuck a pen down my front. My initial inclination is to grab him in a Wado Ryu neck lock, kick his legs out from under him and force him to the ground - from where he’d apologise and promise never to mess with me again. But of course I can’t. Everyone knows I’ve been teetering on the brink of expulsion ever since I hit that sixth former - and yes, I know he ended up in hospital, which sounds bad, but maybe it gave him some quality time to reflect on his inappropriate behaviour towards me? So, anyway, no, I don’t reach for Brent and make mincemeat of his face. Instead I take a deep breath and try to count to ten - just like Norio taught me - while Brent just stands there expectantly, knowing full well that I’m not going to retaliate. Sighing with resignation I reach into my school blouse and retrieve the pen. He watches with glee as I have to rummage around in my considerable cleavage. “Give it back then, Catherine,” he says, eyeing the warm biro now in my hand. “I wanna take it to bed and dream of you.” My cheeks flush with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. Ignoring him I look for a bin to dump the pen, and preferably Brent, into. It’d be dead easy - basic Judo body drop, over the shoulder and SLAM into the rubbish. But unfortunately art galleries don't have many bins. Mrs Adams, our substitute teacher and group guide, calls us over. It’s just typical that out of the three groups we were split into I get put in the one with Brent and the know-nothing teacher. “Okay, everyone. Gather round,” Mrs Adams calls enthusiastically. “This is the main exhibition we’ve come to see, ‘500 years of the painter Sandro Botticelli’.” No one else in the group seems to share her enthusiasm. I wish I could go around on my own. Should have just come up at the weekend to see it as I planned. But at least this way I got free travel. Some do-gooder really wanted us to come see this exhibition, they paid for the tickets, travel and lunch! Wish I had that much cash to splash about. “Let’s look at the painting Catherine was just admiring, shall we?” Mrs Adam’s says. Reluctantly the group shuffles towards the painting of the naked woman on the seashell. Our feet are noisy on the polished wooden floorboards of the National Gallery and I notice a man in a white linen suit and way too much gel slicked on his black hair, grunt as we block his view. “This is one of Botticelli’s most famous paintings,” Mrs Adams explains. “It’s called The Birth of Venus.” “Rather see a picture of Uranus,” Brent smirks at Mrs Adams. Her eyes bulge and she drops the guidebook. Everyone else wets themselves with laughter. She lamely attempts to recover her adult dignity by spouting trivia, “Venus is the Greek goddess of war...” But she’s all flustered now and getting it wrong - that’s substitute teachers for you. “Venus is the Roman goddess of love,” I say out loud - unable to help myself. “Botticelli is showing us a lavish depiction of female beauty. The perfect woman.” My classmates tut at my usual display of weirdness. I really should learn to keep my mouth shut. Brent, however, seems to be thinking it over. “That makes sense,” he says to me. “Except, if she’s the perfect woman why aren’t her tits as big as yours?” My fists clench. I imagine shutting Brent’s mouth for good. Deep breath. Nice deep breaths. This time the group’s laughter, and Mrs Adam’s inability to handle it, brings a gallery attendant, who quickly ushers us out of the room. But I’m not finished. I want to go back and look at the painting on my own, without this lot larking around, ruining it for me. Jeez! Would you listen to me? I’m such a freak. Into martial arts and fine art. Guess that’s why I’m a total social outcast. Figure I’ll have to make more of an effort to act normal if I ever expect to be liked. Meanwhile I’m just gonna secretly slip away from the group and slink back into the room showing The Birth of Venus painting... END OF EXTRACTIf you're still hungry for more check out Sparks.
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