One.
Two.
Three.
The train fills up as we get closer to downtown. Outside, the buildings evolve from houses to small businesses to looming skyscrapers. As soon as the scenery starts to look familiar, I feel better. If something happened, I could walk from here.
At the sixth stop, I scoot closer to the doors.
At the seventh stop, I step off the train.
I did it.
A brick building stands at the corner of Sutton and Grand. The lower level is a print shop with windows painted in bright colors advertising the current specials. Those on the upper levels look like generic office windows. I step around the side to the alley between it and the Laundromat next door. On the wall is a gray box. Worried someone will think I’m tampering with the power, I look behind me. Is Danny watching? I glance up at the building’s cameras. They’re pointed out toward the sidewalk. With shaking hands, I pop open the latch on the box and the lid swings open. Inside is a rolled-up piece of paper, held in place by a smooth rock like the one he gave me at the picnic. I grab both, close the box and dart back to the street.
The note is written in all caps.
TWO BLOCKS EAST. ONE BLOCK SOUTH. GATE ON RIGHT.
At least it isn’t written in Warren code.
My hands tucked into my pockets, I cross at the light and walk the two blocks. The clouds are back, and the skyscraper windows reflect the gray sky. I usually see all of this from a car, not walking around. It’s strange to actually see people’s faces.
Two blocks is Seventh Avenue. I take a right, passing a restaurant with a crowded patio. On my left, the baseball stadium rises like a giant over the street. I’ve been there a couple of times, when Dad threw out the opening pitch. But we always arrived by limo.
The next block down, things look a little sketchier. The buildings are older, and there aren’t as many people around. Danny’s note said there’d be a gate on the right, but all I see is a security officer. Maybe I should ask him.
As I get closer, the space between two buildings opens into a colorful courtyard. I hook my fingers through the chain-link fence and peer inside. Spray-painted artwork covers every inch of the walls. Is this real? It can’t be legal. But there’s a security guy right here, watching. It doesn’t make sense.
I clear my throat and ask him, “Can I go in?” He looks at me with steely eyes and nods.
Even the concrete floor blooms with color. I watch my shoes step across flowers, robots, faces, words. It’s amazing.
“You made it.”
I know his voice before I even look up. Danny has on the same shirt he wore the night I met him at the museum. He gathers me into a hug. “Ready to paint?”
“What? No. No way.”
“Come on.” He shakes two cans and the marbles rattle and ping. “Give it a try.”
“I do oils. Not graffiti.”
“You do art.” He hands me a can and kneels down to spray the ground, his shirt pulled up over his nose. I watch the lines connect into letters, and the letters turn into my name. He stands up and the shirt falls away from his face. “What kind of adventure is it if you’re standing around watching?”
He’s right.
I pull my shirt up over my nose, too, and step back, careful to avoid my shoes. The nozzle presses hard into my finger as I paint black letters connected to his blue, morphing the E-E-V-E-E into D-A-N-N-Y. His letters are blocky, angular. Mine are soft, rounded. When I finish the Y, I look up and see him smiling.
He walks over to the back wall and I follow. Together we go crazy, painting one picture after another, laughing as we rush back to the bin of paint cans by the entrance, grabbing different colors and chasing each other around the square. When we get too loud, the guard looks back at us and we settle down. Kind of.
Danny starts a line on one wall and I start one on the opposite side. We race each other, seeing who can get to the center first. My laughter echoes off the concrete and my line jags all over the place as I run, keeping an eye on him. At the corner, my shoulder smashes into the wall, but I keep going, my shoes clomping against the ground as I rush to meet him.
He stops short of the finish point and drops his arm to his side. I stop, too, inches from him. God, his eyes. I want to paint a sky that color blue.
His paint can clangs against the ground first. He steps toward me as I fall into him. Then his lips are on mine and the cameras are watching and for the first time in my life I don’t care.
There’s always that strange moment when you walk into your room with someone who’s never been there before and it makes you kind of see it for the first time. The place is a mess. I think of Warren’s neat-freak bunker and cringe. My bathrobe hangs from the back of my easel, and paint tubes are scattered everywhere. Pajamas didn’t quite make it into the hamper either. I scoop them up with an apology, then pick a pillow off the floor and toss it back onto the loveseat.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says. He focuses on the artwork on the walls. “These are great. Did you paint them?”
“No, those are all prints.” I take a deep breath. “But these are mine.” I turn each one over to reveal my copycat outlaws on the reverse side. “Kind of.”
“I know that one,” he says, pointing at Starry Night. “Van Gogh, right? I’ve seen it before.”
“You have?” I say, surprised. “Where? It’s banned.”
“I…” He looks at me, confused, then turns back to the paintings. “Don’t remember.”
I slide the Retrogressives book out from underneath my mattress and join him in front of my version of Klee’s Melancholic Child. “See?” I point to the original in the book. “I still don’t have the blending in the background right.”
“Yeah, I was gonna mention that.” He smirks and walks over to the canvas resting against the arm of the couch.
My fingers know their way to Ma Jolie without my even trying. “That’s Picasso. I couldn’t quite match the gray tones around—”
He puts a finger on my lips. “Why are you trashing your work?” He steps around me to the painting on the easel, and I follow. “That one’s mine.” I say it like an apology. I can’t help it.
He looks at it closely. “I like it the best.”
“You don’t have to say that.”
“I know.” He turns to face me. My shoulders relax and my hands go calm. There’s something fractured about him. Something beautiful and broken. When I look at him, it feels like everything will be okay. He leans in close, looking in my eyes, and whispers, “Why haven’t I kissed you yet?”
“I don’t know. Why haven’t—”
He cuts me off, reaching for my face and tracing my jawline. The scent of spray paint lingers on his clothes and skin. The book drops from my hands.
There’s no telling who kisses first.
McGuffy’s is packed by the time Germ arrives. It takes him a minute to find me at the two-seater in the far corner. He fills his cup with a mix of four different sodas and flops into his chair. Then he sits up straighter, staring at me with his eyes wide. A smile turns up one corner of his mouth. “Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Shut up.”
“What?” I lean back in my chair.
“I know that look.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You saw her.” His voice gets louder. “But you didn’t just see her, did you?”
“Why don’t you shout about it,” I say as cool as I can. “I don’t think that guy over there heard you.”
“Dude. It’s so unfair.” He pounds the table with his fist. “Every. Single. Time. Did you ask her if she has any cute friends?”
“Sorry.” I shake my head. “Too busy.”
“I bet you were.” He raises his eyebrows and takes a swig of soda. “Well, maybe over in your world, all the girls dig me, huh? Huh?” He nods emphatically. “That’s what I’m saying.”
“You go on believing that.”<
br />
“I will.” He checks out who’s sitting around us. “So, what do you think?” He tips his head toward the window. On the patio, a garbage can sports a spray-painted bloodshot eye. It isn’t ours. “There’s fresh paint all over town and we haven’t lifted a finger.”
I tap the bottom of my cup to knock the ice loose. “Looks like we struck a nerve.”
“So let’s keep going. Let’s add more.”
I keep my voice low. “Too risky. They’ll be watching. I say we let whoever’s doing the new stuff take over. Besides, we still have M chips to install.”
“True.” He sighs. “It’s just…something’s actually happening, man. I can feel it. I wanna be part of it.”
“You are part of it, dummy. You started it.” I chomp down the ice while he argues his case. Suddenly my chest gets that tight feeling. High-pitched ringing starts up in my ears. “Germ?” My voice sounds far away.
The ringing turns to static as cold floods through me. I feel my hands gripping the table, feel the floor beneath my feet, but my vision swirls black. I squeeze my eyes shut, and when I open them again, I’m lying on my back. My body buzzes. I see a white ceiling, a poster of Einstein, a drawing of squares on a white piece of paper.
Then, in the buzzing, I feel him—the other Danny—reaching across, pushing through me. I slip farther toward the other side. The bedroom comes into focus. I can taste the air, sense the tightness of my old body.
No.
I focus on the sandwich shop. Germ’s voice. My fingers digging into the wood of the table. I stomp my feet on the floor. The bedroom shifts, then dims, and suddenly I’m back. The cold slips away, replaced by a thousand ants crawling under my skin. Breathless, I slide down into the chair, my hands still clutching the table’s edge. Germ stares at me, his mouth hanging open.
“What the hell was that?”
I look at my hands. The buzzing in my chest fades. “I don’t know.”
But I do know.
It was him, on the other side. The other Danny, trying to get through. “Come on,” I say, noticing people staring. “Let’s get out of here.”
Outside the shop, Germ asks, “Has it happened before?”
I look him in the eye and nod. “Once. At the castle.”
“Shit.” He runs a hand over his face. “It was like you were having a seizure or something.”
“It wasn’t a seizure.” I close my eyes and steady my breathing. “It was the same thing as when I jumped here.”
“The Swirling Vortex…?”
“Of Doom,” I finish, my voice grim. “Today is Monday, right?”
“Yeah. Why?”
I sigh, remembering what Warren said. Friday and again on Wednesday. A third is scheduled for Monday. Every day they’ve tested the system, I’ve had an episode, including the day I first got here. “This is going to sound crazy,” I say, “but I think it has to do with Skylar.”
After, I sit on the floor, swirling a brush in a mason jar. The water is murky brown and really should be changed, but I don’t want to leave the painting that’s emerging on the paper in front of me. I’m so close to capturing the sun-fractured look he had at the picnic. The bright green of the trees surrounds his head like an aura. A flare of white obstructs his face. I touch the tip of the brush to the sky, feathering the blue like clouds.
There’s a knock at the door. My first thought is, He’s back.
I set the paintbrush down, tiptoe through the watercolor mess and open the door.
But it isn’t him.
It’s her.
“I can’t believe I trusted you.” Vivian’s eyes are like daggers. Her hands grip her manor house painting. “A kitten? Bosca said it ruined my—” She stops short, her mouth hanging open, and we both realize what she’s seeing.
My walls, covered in outlawed artwork.
Oh no.
I’m doomed.
Her eyes move from the artwork back to my face. She smiles. It’s the same look she had the night she caught me at the museum.
“Vivian.” I keep my voice low. I’m sure my neighbors can hear us. And the hallway camera is always watching. “Please. Let’s talk about this.”
“You want to talk? Fine.” She pushes past me, handing me her painting. I close the door and watch her move around my room, examine each canvas. Every time she looks at one, it feels like a violation. She spends a long time peering down at the just-begun watercolor on the floor. Then, when she’s done scrutinizing the contents of my soul, she strolls back over to me. Her face is cold, triumphant. “A most enlightening collection. I’m sure people would be really interested in knowing about it. Bosca. The Art Guild. The Education Panels. Your dad’s constituents. Should I keep going?”
“Please, Vivian,” I whisper. “It doesn’t have to be like this. Remember how we used to be, before our dads and all the political stuff? Let’s just forget about this and go back to being friends.”
She laughs. “Sorry. I have no desire to be friends with a freak.”
I swallow my anger and set the kitten painting aside. I’m in no position to argue. “I’ll do anything you want.”
“Anything?”
I nod.
She knows she’s beaten me. “Okay. I’ll keep your ugly secret safe. But in return, you have to finish my paintings for Friday.”
“But—”
“I’m not done.” She crosses her arms. “If I don’t get approval from the Art Guild, all bets are off. Whisper a word of our deal to anyone, and you’ll be sorry.”
“But there’s no way to guarantee the guild—”
She shrugs and starts for the door.
“No. Wait.” I close my eyes. “I’ll do it.”
Any plans—albeit unrealistic ones—I had for getting my own work ready for the jury are definitely out the window now. The time I have for planting M chips is in jeopardy, too. Stupid move, Eevee. You really blew it this time.
“Well, then,” she says, clasping her hands. “Let’s get started.”
“Now?”
“No time to waste.” Her smile is sweet. I’d like to rip it right off her face.
We work for two hours. We finish one painting. I’m exhausted, but still have so much to do.
When I’m sure she’s gone, I change into ratty jeans and running shoes. Find the oldest shirt I own. Gather my hair up into a ponytail and pull it through the back of a baseball cap. With my shades on, I look nothing like myself. Which is good. I double-check that the M chips are inside my lipstick case and head out.
My first swap is located west of campus, two blocks north of the Gateway light-rail station. Warren said for most of them we’d work in teams, but that this one should be easy enough to do on my own. DPC patrols aren’t as heavy out here in the boonies.
Unlike this morning, I navigate the rail station like a pro. No need to ask questions or get help. My heart thumps a bit when I go through security, but the guard just shifts the contents of my bag and waves me forward. At the kiosk, I add a round-trip to my fare card, double-check my stop on the map and sit on a bench at the platform to wait. Behind me hangs a poster of a woman with blue eyes and a serious look on her face. Bold letters across the top read WE’RE IN THIS TOGETHER. And across the bottom: IT IS YOUR DUTY TO REPORT SUSPICIOUS ACTIVITY. Oh, the irony.
It’s not yet rush hour. The station is nowhere near as busy as it was this morning. Just a couple of other people waiting. One stares at his phone. The other stares off into space. A janitor pushes a broom along the opposite platform. It makes a quiet swishing sound. Pigeons walk across the kiosk awning, heads bobbing with each step. I close my eyes and imagine Danny with me, the warmth of his skin, the taste of his lips. Try to find that feeling of peace. How has it only been a few days? I feel like he’s always been a part of my life.
The rush of the approaching train startles me. I pull my cap lower on my forehead and choose a seat by the window. The doors close and the train eases away from the station.
Houses and neighbo
rhoods whir by. The green blur of a park. The glinting windows of a busy shopping center. Everyday people doing everyday things.
At the first stop, a group of chatty young people board the train. Their faces are animated, their words hushed. My ears pick up gutsy, security, caught. I wonder what—or who—they’re talking about. I move toward the doors so I’m ready to get off when the train stops, but as we approach the station, the car goes silent. Fingers point out the windows. Taking up the entire side of Sports ’n More is the face of a giant man. Painted in black and gray and white, it towers over the street. His eyes are piercing, and across his forehead are the striped lines of a bar code. Below him are the words WE ARE NOT NUMB—the E, R and S have already been power-washed away by two city employees. An armed DPC officer stands guard as they work.
A sick feeling overwhelms me. The train doors open, but my feet won’t move. They close again and the train departs with me still on board.
We decide to talk to Warren, even if it means telling him my secret. If Skylar is somehow related to why I jumped here, then he’s my best chance of figuring out why, and how to stop it.
So Tuesday morning, we walk to the rail station. Neither of us says much. Probably because there’s too much to put into words: the M chips, our graffiti, the mystery graffiti, the Swirling Vortex of Doom. Or maybe it’s that neither of us wants to admit that everything feels so huge and the odds of it all falling apart have suddenly skyrocketed. To top it all off, I can’t help but wonder if Germ secretly hopes the other Danny will come back.
He nudges me with his elbow and nods at our FEAR = CONTROL painted on a newspaper stand. Beside it is someone else’s design: a camera with an eye for a shutter and the words SMILE, THEY’RE WATCHING.
We wait for traffic to clear before crossing Central and heading toward the security check. Up the street, the sharp corner of the Phoenix Art Museum juts into the sky. That’s where they first met. Images of Eevee flood my brain. I try to push away the thought that maybe she’d rather have the other Danny, too.
While You Were Gone Page 13