Voices

by R.E. Rowe

  “Just smile and say yes ma’am,” says Honesti. “It won’t help to press.”

  “I say full court press,” says Bouncer. “Scream at her too.”

  Honesti is right and Bouncer is wrong, as always. I know Mom can’t do anything about our ancient family history, but I was still mad about it. After all, Mom hadn’t told me that Wesley had a son who was raised on Murdock’s ranch.

  I know it makes no sense to blame her. She doesn’t even know I went to Murdock’s pond. My stomach wrenches when I remember my Exit Plan. Mom knows nothing about that either. Hell, no one does. Not even the annoying voices. No one can ever know.

  What am I going to do about it?

  I force a smile and sit down at the kitchen table. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

  Mom gives me another quick kiss, and then disappears out the front door.

  As if on cue, Bouncer and Honesti start a new argument.

  “Why care about someone who’s been dead for a hundred years?” asks Honesti.

  “So stupid,” says Bouncer, pretending to cry like a baby. “Baby man cares. Wah!”

  Before long they’re shouting at each other. Typical. Same as usual, their argument makes no sense. I close my eyes and rub my temples.

  Meeting Aimee has complicated everything.

  chapter fifteen

  His Saturday morning scent lingers. Comforting. Familiar. I pull the covers over my face, as if it will help me savor it.

  I realize the thought of trying to smell someone is beyond gross, but the reality of doing it isn’t. Besides, who’s going to know?

  His touch is energizing and warm. Mysterious eyes. Soft lips.

  Why do I miss him? I just met the guy.

  Yet, I feel like I’ve always known him.

  Blah blah blah. Even when I think it, it seems overly dramatic or just plain ridiculous. Always known a guy? Really?

  Yes, really.

  He doesn’t smother me. My feeling meter pegs when I’m with him. The way his eyes grab me.

  Damn.

  Reizo must feel it too. But I can’t be sure. I roll over on my side. Then roll the other way.

  Is he in bed sleeping? Does he think about me?

  I force my eyes closed.

  My mood shifts. How stupid am I? Falling for a guy isn’t what I do, not so soon. That’s it. I’m going to put an end to this.

  Oh hell.

  I change my mind.

  Should I? Or shouldn’t I? Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never.

  The sooner I fall asleep, the sooner it’ll be morning.

  Even his name is cute.

  Reizo Rush.

  chapter sixteen

  My bones ache from the early morning chill. 2 a.m. I shiver while standing in front of the high school gym’s brick wall. Transport to the Stars. The piece I’d sketched, but never planned to spray, comes to life in my imagination. And so does Aimee.

  Ever since I met the girl, I’ve stopped dwelling on taking the pills. I’m second-guessing everything. There’s something amazing about her, but I can’t put my finger on it. Something magical. Electric. She inspires me to create. How is that possible?

  “You better get started, honey,” says Honesti. “Hurry it up.”

  “Why bother?” asks Bouncer. “You suck. Stick with crying in bed.”

  “Let him be, would you?” asks Honesti.

  The two voices continue talking, whispering, and carrying on.

  I force myself to focus on the image I’d planned to spray, but thoughts of Aimee distract me. Painting the city with her help would be amazing. Moving a paintbrush together, spraying a can together, and adding color to the gray together.

  Focus dammit. I tighten my left hand on a blue can and hold a yellow can in my right. Each can has a wingcap and sharpshooter attached to spray the first layer of the piece.

  My creative game changer happened freshman year when my friend John Taylor, aka JT, taught me about paint caps. He’s been my mentor ever since. Someone I trust.

  JT showed me how to install adapter caps on cheap spray-paint cans. How the spray leaves the cap’s nozzle and wets a rough surface. How to quickly install a wingcap to change cap styles. He taught me about cap styles: thin, outline, fats, super fats, calligraphy, needle, and stencil.

  “Taking too much time is a tagger’s worst enemy,” JT had told me. “Easy on, spray, easy off. Picking the right cap at the right time for the right tag is the secret behind creating pieces that rock the known universe.”

  Caps made my street art standout. JT even shared secrets like how to cut out stencils ahead of time and use scrap paper as an occasional paint shield. He demanded I use an air filter over my mouth to avoid breathing in paint and killing creative brain cells. Told me to use gloves with the fingertips cut out to keep the paint off my palms, limiting clean up to only my fingertips.

  The dude is genius. He had mad talent as a street artist before his girlfriend got pregnant. That was when he dropped out of high school, married, and eventually became the manager at the hardware store. JT is the only person I know that manages a hardware store, drives a BMW 4-series, and lives in his own home.

  Now he keeps me stocked with supplies from the hardware store recycle bin. The used paint is mostly spray, but sometimes he gives me cans of colored house paint, old brushes, and pieces of colored chalk. I look at it as helping the hardware store with a recycle program by disposing of the half-empty cans of paint on walls and sidewalks. When I finish off a can, I return it to the empties collection. It’s totally a win-win.

  The arrangement is epic. Creating 3D tags was my idea, even though JT spread rumors that he’d come up with my designs. I add a wildstyle “REIZO” tag to sign all my creations. The wildstyle tag is a signal to the gangs in town to leave my shit alone and not to shoot my ass off when I spray. JT has some kind of arrangement with local gangs to give me a free pass to tag where the hell I want. Evidently, the gangsters respect my talent, even if they think I’m nuts.

  Bouncer and Honesti argue as I spray and think about Aimee to tune them out. I have two hours to paint.

  A new image suddenly replaces the Transport to the Stars image in my mind. I hadn’t even practiced the new image that I'm visualizing. Beautiful. Peaceful. Heavenly. Murdock's pond.

  I spray, a sweeping spray at first. Then I add detail. Change paint cans, change caps, and spray again. Sprawling oak trees. Horses graze in the background on green grass. A fish peers at a water skeeter. A crawdad wearing a cool hat plays a guitar. Aimee is painting a picture.

  3:40 a.m. rolls around. My fingertips are soaked in paint, but I’m finally done.

  I take a step back to evaluate. OMG. It’s my best piece ever. Colorful. Three-dimensional features. The images pop. The piece looks alive, full of life, magic, and wonder.

  Shit. My stomach sinks. It’s wrong. All wrong. Oh hell. Why didn’t I think it through?

  The media will see the horses and figure out it’s a picture of Murdock’s ranch. Everyone will know the girl is Aimee De Lucca. The cops will harass her. She’ll think I’m an obsessed crazy jerk for painting pictures of her in public. She’ll hate me for sure.

  Shit. There’s only one thing to do—change the piece.

  “You’re out of time,” Honesti says. “Reiz! Security will be here any minute!”

  “You may as well give yourself up,” Bouncer says. “Or jump off a roof top.”

  I act fast, grabbing a primer can, spraying over the entire image, grab another, and another. In less than three minutes, my best creation ever is replaced with primer gray.

  I grab a color for a train, another color for its headlight and two colors to mix for bricks. My hands move in a blur, adding color to the gray canvas on the bricks. I spray, change caps, and spray some more. Finally, the image matches the real brick on the original wall, texture and all. Not bad—light from an on-coming train.

  “Hurry,” Honesti says. “Get moving!”

  “
Give it up boy,” Bouncer says. “You’re done.”

  White car lights approach as Top Dog Security’s small Ford Ranger drives into the school’s parking lot.

  “Reiz!” Honesti shouts.

  A truck door slams. Foot steps. The security guard is moving towards me.

  Slow and sure, I spray “REIZO,” and then wipe my hands with a rag and stuff the cans in my backpack with the caps. I zip it up and walk away.

  Just as I reach the corner of the building, the security guard’s flashlight lights up the wall I’d just sprayed. “What in the name of—”

  “Run!” the voices yell together.

  For the first time all night, I listen.

  chapter seventeen

  I gaze at the amazing piece we’ve painted together. A fish jumping, a crawdad crawling, bushes moving, grass swaying, rippling pond. Bach Cello Suites No. 2 in D Minor: Prelude plays on my cell. Long, soft, low vibrations.

  I’m not sure why I feel so blue today. Maybe it’s because I realize the boy who’s been helping me add 3D features to my paintings over the last week isn’t real. He can’t be. The Reizo from school is unpredictable—crazy. The cute guy sitting next to me in tight jeans, a baggy t-shirt, and a gray hoodie isn’t crazy at all. This boy has a soft touch and mad talent. He’s actually amazing.

  So what’s real? Is the pond where I visited Grams this pond or was it somewhere else?

  Maybe Reizo is crazy and I’m delusional? Maybe he’s not helping me paint. Or maybe it’s all my imagination and he’s not sitting next to me. A shock runs through my body when Reizo touches me, and I shudder. The cute boy next to me is definitely real.

  “Sorry,” Reizo says. “I didn’t mean to—”

  My face warms and my voice softens. “It’s okay.”

  “Can I?” Reizo asks.

  My heart is racing. “Can you what?”

  “Guide your hand.”

  “Um...” My breath catches as I peer into his eyes, wondering what he sees when he looks at me. Who is this guy who magically appeared the first afternoon of summer and cast his spell on me?

  “Relax,” he says. His grip is firm, but his fingers are soft. “Let me move your hand.”

  I exhale a long breath and try to relax as a major set of goose-bump-waves run down my arm, one after the other. I stick out my hand, still gripping the paintbrush.

  Dip. Stroke. Dip. The painting is coming to life and popping off the canvas.

  Reizo is such an amazing artist. I imagine the painting is the cello and my hand is the bow. He moves my hand to the rhythm of Bach’s Cello Suite.

  Dip. Stroke. Dip.

  I close my eyes and imagine we’re gliding across the floor, dancing in a close embrace. Musical notes flowing and lingering, his arms holding me.

  His hand stops. “Are you tired?”

  I force open my eyes. “Sorry. No, I—”

  “I think it’s done.” He lets go and gestures toward the paper. “It would have looked better with spray.”

  I inspect our creation. The pond appears to float above the paper, clouds moving across a blue sky, bushes swaying, a fish jumping. Even the crawdad in the scene appears alive, scampering from the muddy bank toward the mystical pond.

  “Where did you learn to paint like that?”

  “Nowhere. Just lots of practice.”

  I roll my eyes. “On building walls?”

  “Sidewalks and streets too. So?” Reizo’s body stiffens and his face reddens. He rubs at the back of his neck. “It’s way harder than sitting here and painting without any risk.”

  I’m surprised by his sudden energy shift. It pushes me back. The edge in his voice sounds closer to the Reizo I recognize from school. I feel intense anger and pain. His warmth has gone cold and I start to shiver.

  I get what he means by risk, since tagging is illegal in all parts of the civilized world, but why is he mad at me? I force a deep breath, trying to calm myself. “What’s wrong with the way I paint?”

  “Nothing.” Reizo whistles in a long breath and lets it out in a huff. His voice relaxes. “Sorry. Are you cold? You’re shivering.”

  He takes off his hoody and wraps it over my shoulders. “This should help.”

  Reizo’s energy shifts again. Anger and pain dissolves into calmness. I’m feeling everything he feels, but he’s not crushing me.

  “It’s just that creating art in the city is so much bigger,” he says. “Way more intense and rewarding.”

  I feel his magical energy return. He’s back to the beautiful Reizo.

  “It’s a major adrenaline rush,” he says.

  “I understand it’s a rush sneaking around in the dark, trying not to get caught. I don’t mean to sound critical, but what’s the point of defacing someone’s property?”

  “What’s the point of copying what’s right in front of you?” he asks, his voice gaining a sharper edge. “What’s the point of painting a three-dimensional pond that’s already a three-dimensional pond?”

  Reizo stands and raises his arms. His eyes are focused and determined, his words loud and intense, and his energy fierce and full of passion. “Copy what Mother Nature created? Why bother? It already has color. How does copying a landscape help change the gray part of the world? Why not take a photograph? What’s the point of painting it?”

  It’s hard to keep up with his mood changes. “You’re scaring me,” I say.

  He huffs and returns to the chair, lowering his voice, softening his eyes. His energy shifts once again. Now he feels calm, like a high mountain lake without a wind stirring it.

  “Sorry,” he says. “I just get passionate about bringing the gray parts of the world to life.”

  It’s weird. The feeling I get from him is familiar, like a home cooked meal, or a warm fire on a snowy day. I should be nervous about the way he’s acting, his shifting emotions, intensity and passion, gentle one moment, edgy the next. But his touch, oh God, his fingertips.

  “I think I get it,” I say. “The doors at the firehouse were super boring till you sprayed that seriously wild tag.”

  His eyes shift down. I think he’s blushing. “You think?”

  My heart is racing. I love it when he gets shy. He has me again as his Saturday morning scent rides the breeze to my nose. I know the boy in front of me is the real Reizo. He’s the cute guy with the bottled-up passion to change the world, his crazy eyes full of magical wonder and possibility.

  I get him. He feels held back and that frustrates him to no end. Adding images to the walls and sidewalks in Franklinville is the way he expresses himself. The way he tries to color the world.

  The Reizo back at school is the fake one, the caged up, trapped one. The boy in front of me is the mysterious and attractive one who only wants to create and make the world better.

  “I have an idea,” he says with a bad-boy glint in his eye.

  I grin. “Only one?”

  “Well—” he pauses.

  “Come on, spit it out.”

  “How about I show you what I do? Bring the gray to life. Washing away the old, creating a city full of color. What do you say?”

  I peer deep into his eyes. “You sound like a poet.”

  His hand touches my forearm. “How about it, Ames?”

  Oh my. Only Grams called me Ames.

  “Going out in the middle of the night?” I ask. “Vandalizing a building? It sounds dangerous.”

  “Not vandalizing, think of it as upgrading. I promise you’ll feel more alive than you ever have.”

  I think about it for a moment and remember Grams telling me this is my life to experience. But can I trust him? Will his energy shift negative and stay there?

  I search his eyes and let myself feel another set of goose-bump-waves spreading across my skin. There’s only one way to find out.

  “When?” I ask.

  “Tonight,” he replies. “2 a.m. sharp . . . You’re really up for it?”

  “2 a.m.?” I suddenly have s
econd thoughts. “That’s in the middle of the night. My mom—”

  “We can’t exactly spray in the middle of the day. I mean, well, we could, but the end result wouldn’t be as cool.”

  “So Mr. Poet...” I grin. “You want me to sneak out, meet you in the middle of the night, and watch you break the law?”

  “Sure, why not? But that’s not all.”

  “Oh?”

  “You’re going to break the law with me.”

  “I hardly even know you.” I feel heat creeping up my neck and tingles running down my spine.

  “There’s nothing to worry about,” he smirks. “I promise to have you back by 4 a.m. Your mom will never know. So, how about it?”

  Am I crazy to say yes to this beautiful guy?

  I take in a quick breath and allow my grin to grow. “Do you even know where I live? I don’t even know your number. Do you have a car? A cell phone?”

  “No, nope, and nada—no idea where you live, not allowed to drive, and cell phones cost too much.” He shakes his head. “But none of that matters. We’ll meet at the school’s front gate. I have a special piece planned. Don’t worry. Our target isn’t far from the school. A short jog, just wear comfortable shoes.”

  I stare into his eyes, but I don’t feel scared. I’m excited. I try to come up with an excuse to say no, but nothing comes to mind. The school is only two blocks from my house.

  “I promise, Ames. I won’t let anything happen to you. You’ll have a blast.”

  I feel our connection getting stronger. Does he feel it too?

  Every cell in my body is saying don’t go with him, but I let his electric touch energize me. It doesn’t drain me. Reizo’s soft eyes tell me he’s feeling what I’m feeling. His energy tells me that too. I’m falling for this guy and I can’t stop myself.

  “Okay, I’ll go.”

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  chapter eighteen

  The stillness makes it a perfect night to spray as I wait at Theodore High’s front gate. I just wish the voices would shut-up. They've been relentless with their ranting.