Drawn

by Cecilia Gray

  My knees jelly as I head into the house. Fingers at my neck to check my pulse, I glance at the pager clipped to my waistband. There’s been no word from Porter during the past few days, and I go back and forth between thinking no news is good news or I’m about to be fired. It’s not like I—

  —stop short at my open bedroom door.

  Viviane sits crossed-legged on my bed in pixie-girl chic. Today’s blue tee features a There’s No Planet B logo and is worn over, yes, blue tights, and cinched with a wide blue belt. The outfit doesn’t bother me. Her feet on the bed don’t bother me. Her holding a piece of my artwork doesn’t even bother me.

  What bothers me is that my six boxes of belongings must have finally arrived during my run and they’ve been cut open, their contents partially strewn on the floor and her paws all over it.

  She’s been through my stuff.

  My stuff.

  I don’t have a lot of stuff. Haven’t always had stuff. This isn’t my house or my room but this stuff, at least, is mine.

  “Did you draw this?” she asks, holding up the page in her hands.

  “Did you go through my stuff?”

  “Yeah, how else do you think I found these?”

  I scrounge through the boxes. The clothes have been tousled and unfolded, but my comics are still in padded crates. I pull them out and line them against the wall until I’ve accounted for each and every one.

  I whip around to lay into her and tell her you can’t touch a person’s things especially when it’s their only things, but—

  She grips my drawing between fisted fingers close to her frowning face. It’s my attempt to recreate the Wonder Woman—Traitor cover from the comic I saw at the bookstore. I’ve outlined the key figures and shaded the background of harpoon-toting, wetsuit-wearing villains.

  “Is something wrong with it?” I ask, distracted by her furrowed brow.

  “No. It’s amazing.”

  Oh. That’s a Goose I’ll take. “You think?”

  “The detail is insane.” She points to the white bubbles around Wonder Woman’s fists as she punches underwater.

  I climb on to the bed next to her. “It’s hard with all the blues, too. There’s blue in Wonder Woman’s leotard, the blue from the water, and then the shades of blue in the wetsuits.”

  She whistles appreciatively. “I didn’t realize you were this good. What are you thinking post grad? Art institute? Or straight to a showing at the Met?”

  “It’s a hobby. Not a career.”

  “Are you kidding? You can’t waste talent like this by using it recreationally.”

  I’d never considered art school, not with that other talent I can’t waste. “You might want to mention that to St. Anne’s. They placed me in Introductory Art since my work isn’t evocative.”

  “What?” She scoots closer. “Come on, what do the nuns who run that place know about evocative? They’re a bunch of ragged old yatches.”

  “Who have never seen the inside of a museum.”

  “And need to get laid.”

  I giggle. She giggles, too, which transforms my giggle into a laugh, and then Viviane starts laughing. The next thing I know, we’re collapsed back on the bed, hands on our stomachs. Endorphins hit my body the way they do when I run. This otherworldly high. Only from laughing. I haven’t laughed like this since…well, since ever. It’s different. It’s nice.

  I tilt my head sideways to study her profile. She has a contented smile on her face like she could lie here forever. But then I remember why she’s here to begin with. “Why did you go through my boxes?”

  “Why are you so freakshow about your stuff? It’s not like you have that much.”

  Goosed again.

  She rubs the inside of her wrist to her mouth nervously. “That was harsh. I dunno why I keep freaking with you. I wanna know you. You’re living in my house and you’re like a stranger. You know these things about me but I don’t know anything about you. I was curious.”

  A curiosity am I. I’ve never had someone want to know something about me. I glance back around my room—it’s stuff, right? Paper. Ink. Cloth. “Don’t sweat it.”

  “Speaking of sweat, I’ll wait while you shower.”

  “Shower? Why?”

  She smiles. “To come with me to meet Sebastien tonight at Place Jean Rey.”

  Tonight? Yes—what they’re doing—that could interest the cops. At Place Jean Rey? I recognize the name of the square off Rue Belliard, behind the European Union committee buildings. What could they be up to in a public square that would attract the attention of the cops?

  “I’m ready. We can go now.”

  “Um…you could use a shower.”

  “The sweat will freeze off in this weather, anyway.”

  “Do you really want to walk around stinking like gym socks?”

  Do I smell that bad? I grab a fistful of shirt and bring it to my nose for a sniff.

  “Oh, way gross, stop it.” She gently shoves me off the bed. “Come on, cleanse.”

  She’s pushy but I acquiesce. This must be what girls do. When they bond. May as well go with it in case she gets suspicious. Besides, it’s not bad. This feeling it gives me to give in to her teasing. It doesn’t feel like losing, that’s for sure. “Okay. I’ll shower, but don’t—” I glance at my boxes. “Don’t touch my comics.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before. Sacred ground. I get it.”

  In the bathroom, I shed my jogging pants and tee and step into the shower booth. Someone has stolen my shampoo and body wash and replaced it with organic crap and crystal rock deodorant.

  “What happened to my all my bathroom things?”

  She yells from the bedroom, “Do you really want to use ingredients that are toxic enough to burn the retinas off a rabbit?”

  I finish, wrap a towel around my body and go back to the bedroom. I kinda expect to see her pawing through my drawers, but she’s sitting on the bed next to an outfit she’s laid out. My black jeans, a black tee, and a black sweatshirt. My standard uniform now that I don’t have suits. Wow. Pixie girl pays attention.

  “What’s that for?”

  “Really, Einstein?”

  “But—”

  “Put it on. Seb’s not the type to wait.”

  The jeans and tee are even folded up nicely, nicer than I had them in my drawer. “Thank you.” The words feel weighted on my tongue. I’ve said them before, but never meant the way I do now.

  ~~~~~

  Place Jean Rey, Brussels, Belgium

  Bare trees and stone benches line the square. Its fountains propel water into the air. Exits—they abound, but open areas are always weapons-lite.

  Sebastien jogs to us diagonally across the park wearing a backpack. I flinch at his steady gaze, but resist the urge to look away. He does not look happy to see me despite being all over me at the bookstore.

  “Pourquoi est-elle ici?”

  Despite his accusing glare, Viviane sticks her nose in the air. “She’s with me.”

  Sebastien exhales a long breath, gripping the backpack straps tight at his shoulders. I should turn around and go home at that mulish expression, but Viviane bats her lashes at him and slowly, surely, something in him melts until he shakes his head and smiles at her.

  The feeling he gets when he gives in to her must not be too bad, either. Forget dictators and despots. Viviane is the one with power.

  He’s off and running with the greeting kisses. Viviane first.

  Then me. His lips press on my cheeks as his hand cups the curve of my neck. After a second, he breaks away. It’s swift contact, but that’s all it takes for me to have this fantasy of us standing side by side, fingers intertwined, my head leaning on his shoulder.

  A shiver runs down my spine so I shake it off, shake the vision away.

  With a voice like mine, real relationships are impossible. Imaginary impossible ones, inevitable. It’s like I’m constantly reeling a film collage of never-gonna-happen in my head
. First date. First kiss. All the firsts I’ve never had.

  “You have it?” Viviane asks.

  He hefts his backpack higher on his shoulders and studies me solemnly. Whatever it is has got to be small enough to fit in his backpack, and still he’s cold. It’s a surreal thing, not to be trusted. Although he has reason not to. I’m here to figure out what’s going on with Viviane and whether it puts Porter’s cover at risk. If that means being a narc, then I’ll do it.

  “Seb, come on.” Viviane digs at his shin with her toe. “You have the stuff or what?”

  He turns reluctantly to her. “Oui. You?”

  She pats her own backpack. “No grunt work, no glory, right?”

  I interrupt. “I could use a clue.”

  Viviane points to a three-story building across the street with a convenience store at the base. “We’re breaking onto the roof.”

  A roof party? Okay, okay, that’s not so bad. Maybe Sebastien has booze from the bar in his backpack. Porter can handle it.

  “First step, Vivi?”

  “Oh. Yeah.” Viviane swings off her backpack and pulls out binoculars. She cranes her neck and holds them up to her eyes, specing the joint. Good for Sebastien. If there’s one thing I can respect, it’s operational data reconnaissance.

  Viviane lets out a low whistle. “That’s a climb.”

  Scaling the side of a building definitely ups the interest factor.

  Sebastien says, “There’s worse.”

  I scan the side of the building. No exterior fire stairwell, even though it’s three stories high—must be old enough to be pre–fire code. Plenty of roof anchors, though. “Do you have any rope?”

  “Rein it in, you two,” Viviane says. “This doesn’t have to be Mission Impossible.”

  “Is there a door from the alley?” What am I thinking? I shouldn’t be helping Vivi get arrested.

  “Why? You wanna knock the door down?”

  “Don’t be all dramatic…never mind. I want to pick the lock so we can access whatever internal stairwell leads to the hutch on the rooftop. Simple.”

  “You gonna bust out a hairpin for that?”

  “Two hairpins—one to rake over the pins and one for pressure on the tumbler.”

  Sebastien narrows his eyes. “You know how to do that?”

  “It’s not that difficult.” I learned my first summer with Chelsea, when she hardly knew what to do with me when I wasn’t in school so first it was lock picking. We quickly moved onto the rules of evidence, crime scene investigation. The good stuff.

  “I want to see her try,” Sebastien says.

  “Shut it, Sebastien. You’re both overthinking.” Viviane jogs across the street and into the store.

  I elbow Sebastien as we follow her inside and waltz up to the cash register. It’s freezing cold out there. Couldn’t she have a booze party inside like civilized folk? And if that’s what it is, why is it only the three of us? “Why does Viviane want to get on the roof, anyway?”

  “She wants to take it back.”

  “What does that mean?” I hate when a Goose doesn’t make sense.

  “It means you shouldn’t be here.” He hisses and swears softly as soon as the Goose leaves his mouth. “Sasha—”

  “Forget it.” I walk so I bump up behind Viviane.

  “Watch the master.” She says. She leans her elbows against the counter and smiles, completely captivating the elderly clerk.

  “Bonsoir, Monsieur,” she says. Then her French is off in rapid-fire. I catch most of the conversation. She explains we’re students working on a school project.

  My gaze darts along the walls, the corners, down aisles of canned goods, checking for surveillance equipment. No telltale black half-orbs masking cameras. Nothing that could pass for a one-way mirror.

  Viviane reaches into her back pocket and lays a stack of bills next to the register.

  The clerk gestures to the back and turns his back to us.

  We maneuver into a small break room that reeks of stale coffee. A door leads to the alley. From the inside, I can see I could have broken in easily. There’s no deadbolt and the frame is weakly constructed.

  “I can’t believe he let us back here,” I say.

  “Why not?” Viviane shrugs. “He doesn’t own the joint. He’s raking in minimum wage and bummed cigarettes. We made his day. He’ll also claim he didn’t see anything if the cops show up.”

  “Why would the cops show up if we’re hanging out on a roof?”

  But Viviane only smiles mysteriously.

  We find the interior stairwell and climb up the narrow spiral stair to the roof. The metal steps clang and groan with our weight. We follow it until we find ourselves walking out the roof hutch. We’re blasted with a brisk, biting wind that makes my back teeth ache.

  The roof is flat cement, except for the hutch and a soda billboard twelve feet high. Without any immediate neighboring buildings, the wind whistles through the air and whips up my curls to a Medusa-like frenzy.

  I step to the edge. Downtown Brussels rushes to meet me from three stories down. Place Jean Rey lies behind us, the U-shaped esplanade of the Cinquantenaire to our right. The manicured lawns and castle-like exterior of the Residential Palace lie in front. People scamper like supersize ants between Parliament, Commission, and Council buildings.

  “It’s beautiful, no?” Sebastien asks beside me, his words barely reaching me before being carried away by the wind.

  “The whole city is beautiful,” I yell so my words can reach him.

  “Can we trust you?” He seems surprised by his own question.

  I look up sharply at him, my mouth clamped shut, like I might spill the truth if I answer. Before I can, Viviane squeezes between us, resting her hands across our shoulders. “No rest for the righteous. This work of genius isn’t going to put itself up.” She turns to face the roof, swings off her backpack, and reaches inside to fish out a piece of cardboard.

  Sebastien has followed her lead and digs through his bag to pull out a can of blue spray paint. It jangles, but he sticks something on the bottom—a small magnet—and then it goes quiet as he shakes it up.

  Everything sharpens into focus.

  How Viviane knew about Kid Aert.

  Their interest in my drawing.

  “Are you guys doing graffiti?” I ask, trying to contain my excitement—could they be graffiti artists? Could they be my way into the community?

  “Graffiti? What are you, corporate media?” Viviane says. “This is protest art, thank you very much.”

  I do a mental run-through of the dossier, but there was no mention of Sebastien—I would have remembered him, his picture, the bar—and of the handful of girl artists, none had a political slant and none, absolutely none, had anything to do with the daughter of Porter Jennings.

  That means they’re low on the totem pole. But at least they’re on the pole.

  Does Porter have any idea how much his worlds are about to collide?

  She lays down the cardboard and unfolds it until it lies as large as a living-room rug at my feet. I peel the flyaway curls away from my face to get a good look. She has cut out the phrase Meat is Murder and stands over it, fists on hips.

  Oh, man, that’s the problem.

  Sebastien and Viviane aren’t graffiti artists.

  Sebastien and Viviane are wannabes.

  There’s no way they can get anywhere with a cliché slogan spray-painted across a billboard.

  “Look at them.” Viviane stares over the landscape as though she holds dominion over central Brussels. I follow her gaze across the main lawn of the Residential Palace. A banner on the lawn undulates in the wind.

  Global Environmental Summit.

  The very summit that Porter’s asset, Halim Waled, is in town for. I follow the skyline to the opposite end of the lawn, where there is a row of embassies. If I’m not mistaken, the M—— embassy lies squarely at the end of the long row of tall, skinny buildings.

  “How long is this goi
ng to take?” I ask, eager to get off the train to nowhere.

  “A few minutes,” she says.

  “Longer,” Sebastien corrects. “Do not forget drying time.”

  Viviane sticks out her tongue. “Watch and learn.”

  Sebastien rolls his eyes as he reaches into his pocket for a surgical mask, which he hooks over his nose and ears. Viviane does the same and I decline her offer of a mask. Dumb slogan or no, at least they have all the equipment of a professional.

  Sebastien pulls another can out of his bag and sprays it against the cardboard, sending up a whiff of glue. He and Viviane throw the cardboard up on the billboard.

  Sebastien scales the side of the billboard land hefts his stomach over the top so he can reach down and secure the top of the cutout. His white tee flaps in the wind.

  “Environmental summit, my ass.” Viviane slams her fist against the cardboard. “Most of the companies want a photo op.”

  A crowd empties out of a nearby committee building. A few individuals break away and hold their hands over their eyes to stare up at us.

  “Total capitalist cronies.” Her voice is muffled beneath her mask. “They’ll be sipping champagne at the Magritte benefit tonight, paying more attention to aging painted paper than the fact that three miles from here, there’s a slaughterhouse where pigs are hung from their hooves while their throats are slit and they die from bleeding out.”

  She sure knows how to paint a picture with words.

  “It’s totally tragic,” she continues. “If you could hear them, Sasha. Their squealing—”

  Sebastien leaps to the ground. “Vivi, pay attention.”

  She makes a face at Sebastien that’s obvious even beneath her mask, and swipes his can of red spray paint. As she moves her arm back and forth over the cardboard cutout, a faint cloud of paint disperses. When she finishes the last R, Sebastien rips the cardboard down so it collapses to the rooftop at our feet.