Drawn

by Cecilia Gray

After we finish our slices of cake, Chelsea heads upstairs to Porter’s office and I’m hit with cold, clammy panic that she’s here to screw up the emancipation and my assignment. There’s no way she flew across an ocean for my birthday. She’s giving my benching idea one last shot.

  Well, hell no. No way. No when I’m so close to nailing my first mission and being independent.

  So the question is—how do I listen in? A cup against the door seems like amateur hour.

  I tug on Vivi’s arm as she dries the last dish. “Does your dad’s office have a phone?”

  She squints her eyes. “I don’t think so. He uses a mobile sat phone.”

  Which means I can’t reroute it into a microphone. “Can I borrow your headphones?”

  “Er…sure.”

  “Like now. Meet me in my room.”

  I scurry to my room, grab my laptop, lean down on the cool tile, and press my ear against the corner air vent. My room is directly under his office, and I hear the faint whisperings of a conversation.

  Her voice. His. Hers again. But not enough to make out what they’re saying.

  Vivi walks in. “What the—?”

  “Shut the door,” I whisper-shout, beckoning her in with my hand. Normally I’d never do this in front of her, but I need her laptop and I need to listen in now and I need to not be distracted by the endless litany of questions she’d have if I excluded her.

  She kicks the door closed, walks over to me, and sets down the earbuds. “Do I need to back away slowly?” she asks.

  I insert the earbud jack into the laptop’s microphone socket, then slip the earbuds through the air vent grate and crank up the volume on the laptop. Using the earbuds in a mic socket converts them into a microphone and allows the laptop to amplify the sound it picks up through its speakers.

  Porter’s voice comes through scratchy, but audible. “Told you. …emancipation…submitted…”

  Then Chelsea’s voice, too low to be heard.

  “What are they talking about?” Vivi asks. “What does that mean?”

  “You…reconsider,” Chelsea was saying. “…circumstances…”

  I shove the laptop off me. How could she? How could she ruin my life like this? My ears get hot, my breath comes in short and shallow, and my heart beats out of control. The room starts to fall in on me.

  “What’s going on?” Viviane asks.

  I stumble to my feet. “I need air. Tell everyone I’ll be back in a bit.”

  “Wait, Sasha—”

  But I run out outside and take off down the street, pushing faster until the wind in my ears drowns out everything else.

  ~~~~~

  When I get back, Chelsea is walking the perimeter of my room, trailing her hand lightly across the desk, the bed, the radiator.

  She looks up as I lean against the doorjamb. “Not a whole lotta light in here.”

  “No. But I have a working bathroom.”

  “There is that.”

  “And it’s not the servant’s quarters.”

  She sucks in a breath so swiftly.

  “You got what you needed?” I ask, surprised by the venom in my voice.

  She waits. Five seconds. Five seconds between her and me and all our years together. “It’s good to see you happy. You have a friend. Classes doing well. Porter speaks highly of you.”

  “So you didn’t get what you want?” I surmise, a little smugly. Where did this need to hurt her come from? I pull off my cuff bracelet and set it down on the desk. My wrist feels naked without it, and oh so light, enough to lift to the sky.

  She stares at the bracelet for a long time, unblinking.

  We’re six feet apart, maybe, her at the foot of my bed and me at the head. But it feels like the distance is swelling out, expanding, pushing us to opposite ends of the world. Having her here, in my new life, isn’t quite right. Like she doesn’t fit anymore and that leaves a cold sensation in me, a hollowed-out feeling.

  “I’ll walk you to the door,” I say.

  The next few minutes are a haze. There are handshakes. False extended invitations of please come again or look me up the next time you’re in Georgia. Pleasantries. Until she’s halfway out the door and turns to hug me.

  My body is shocked by the contact at first, but then I slide my arms around her waist and hold on tight, my face in her shoulder.

  “Take care, hon,” she whispers as she pulls away.

  I head straight to my room. I’ve thrown myself on the bed before I realize Viviane’s come in behind me.

  “Sixteen.” She whistles, settling next to me. “You can ask Sebastien to bring you beer now. Gotta love this country.”

  I manage a weak smile.

  “Your mom’s cool.”

  “She’s not my mom.”

  “Did we let in a homeless woman off the streets?”

  “I told you—she’s not like…my real mom. She’s my foster guardian. I don’t have a real mom or dad.”

  “What happened to your parents?”

  “I don’t know. They abandoned me after I was born.” For the longest time, I couldn’t say those words without choking up, but now they’re like a story I tell. Like a movie I’m summarizing.

  “That’s awful.” Viviane face scrunches like she’s eaten something bad. “Well, that’s their problem. Not yours.”

  Says a child with two parents.

  “So you’re adopted now. That’s so great she took you in.”

  Yeah, so great. “I’m not adopted. If I was, she’d be a mom. A real mom. Foster means temporary.” I pick at the bedspread, unable to meet her eyes.

  “Right…but…how long has she had you?”

  “Four, five years.”

  “She cooks for you?”

  “Not really, we’re more of a takeout crowd.”

  “But she feeds you, right? Clothes you? Puts a roof over your head?”

  “Well, yeah. I mean, legally she has to.”

  “Gets you to school?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What more do you want?”

  “Nannies feed and clothe kids, too.”

  “Nannies get paid.”

  “Chelsea…” But she didn’t get paid. Not to be my handler. She was paid as an FBI agent, but that’s not the same thing, or is it?

  “Chelsea what?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought. News flash, dumbass. That’s your mom.”

  I grab a pillow and hug it tightly between my knees and chest. “You should want to be a mom before you’re allowed to be one.”

  IX

  Cathedral of St. Michael and St. Gudula, Brussels, Belgium

  With two minutes to find Porter on site, I power across the lawn and whip my head back and forth searching bench after bench. Maybe he’s inside.

  The damp grass squidges under my sneakers. I slip and throw out my arms to catch my balance. Intricately carved statues of saints straight out of a gothic horror comic trim the exterior and creep me out as I quickstep up the stairs of the cathedral. I enter beneath a black organ’s towering pipes. Light filters through panes of stained glass in the domed belfry and cast their glow over rows of dark wooden seats stacked side by side.

  Weapons—ironically, everywhere. The grate that lines the walls to protect the devotional items from tourists has black iron spikes that would make any vampire nervous.

  The pedestrians are a mix of devotees in the chairs and tourists silently walking the perimeter of the church. They admire the bleached white stone carvings in hushed tones. Not a lumberjack shirt in the bunch.

  I check my watch. One minute over. Shit.

  I take slow, measured steps down the center aisle towards the altar, allowing me to glance both right and left into the pews.

  Old ladies with wrinkled fingers and black knit shawls. Gentlemen in suits. Young girls with scarves and shifts.

  It’s not until midway to the front that I recognize Porter one aisle ahead. The person sitting next to him is a head taller
and gesturing almost wildly, though his speech is imperceptible.

  “But Aabid,” Porter says, “the visa is contingent on your cooperation.”

  Three small, boisterous blond children occupy the chairs behind them. Sitting in front of the mark, Aabid, won’t be as effective as beside him, so that’s where I head. I take tiny side steps down the aisle and scoot in front of Porter, in front of his mark, careful not to make eye contact. I plop down in the chair next to Aabid.

  Aabid fumbles with his black tie and gestures frenetically with his hands. “You said no more favors. No more.”

  “I’m not asking for a favor, Aabid. I’m asking you to honor your agreement.”

  Aabid runs his hand through his close-shorn dark curls that remind me a little of Sebastien’s hair. He’s young and attractive like Sebastien, too, but slimmer, so his gray V-neck sweater hangs loose at his neck. He glances over to me nervously as I kneel on the cold, hard floor and fold my hands over themselves. I close my eyes over my fists, trying to blend in like the locals genuflecting, but it’s hard because I have to fight the urge to check on him. He sounds terrified.

  “Will you lay down the tracer?” Porter asks.

  “Amen,” I say, crossing myself.

  “How can you ask this of me?” Aabid says. “No no no, I mean to say, of course. You ask, so I will do it.” From the corner of my eye, I see his him bury his head in his hands, elbows on his knees.

  “I don’t believe you,” Porter says.

  “I will do my best,” he promises.

  “Your best won’t give me a tracer in the Embassy.”

  “Please, give me chance,” Aabid says. “The visa—”

  “Aabid,” Porter interrupts softly. “Have you been talking to anyone about your travels on the student visa?”

  I clear my throat.

  “No no no no. Of course not.”

  “That’s all I wanted to hear, Aabid. Thank you for your time.”

  “I can go now?”

  “Of course.”

  “The visa?”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  The seat groans as Aabid stands and he walks away, his heels clicking on marble. Then a presence on my left. I glance sideways to find Porter genuflecting next to me. Hands folded in prayer. Eyes closed. A grim twist to his mouth.

  “Who was that?” I ask.

  “Algerian national. He’s a professor of cultural studies there, but has wanted a visa to come teach in the United States. We promised him one if he would help us with a task.”

  “The tracer thing you asked for? What is that?”

  “It’s a device that sends a signal. We can do many things with the signal. He doesn’t want to take the risk of being caught with one, even though he has access to the Embassy when he tutors the ambassador’s children.”

  The image of his head buried in his hands flashes through my mind. “Is he going to be okay? If he doesn’t do it?”

  Porter gives a long sigh and glances down at the floor. I notice he waits five seconds. “I care about all my assets, Sasha. All of them. More than the bureaucrats in Washington who would sell out their mothers. But we’re both getting something out of this arrangement. None of these guys are helping us out of the goodness of their hearts, you understand?”

  I nod once. He seemed so young. And the quid pro quo math equation that makes sense on paper doesn’t seem to work when you consider that someone’s livelihood, their way of life, is at stake.

  “Good,” Porter says. “I’m glad you understand. Now. Do you have your asset on the hook for the Embassy job?”

  I see how easily Porter can dismiss an asset, and I have a feeling he’d dismiss me as easily if I don’t deliver. “By this weekend,” I promise. “But is that it? He does the job and I sit at home?”

  “Your job is getting other people to do your job.”

  He says job. But I hear dirty work somehow—like standing by and letting someone else do everything doesn’t seem right. Doesn’t feel like I’m doing anything. Like maybe the art, those sketches, are the only real things I’ve done.

  ~~~~~

  Stella Artois Restaurant and Bar, Brussels, Belgium.

  Vivi yells at me through the door, “What’s the secret knock?”

  I bang harder.

  “Yep, that’s the one.”

  She opens the door and smiles at me, then gives me three quick kisses on the cheek. Guilt clenches my gut for what I’m about to do to her, but I keep telling myself—greater good. Greater good. And anyway, she must not care about me. Not really. She’s in this for her own project for the animals and for Sebastien. I’m like a mini-project within a project that she’ll forget about.

  I’ll finish the job. I’ll move out. Move on. She’ll go back to the Athleticas.

  Behind her, I see our elongated stencil cutout lying on top of a rectangular white canvas that spans the entire length of the bar counter. Half of the design has been sliced out.

  “So—that’s for Cochon headquarters, right?”

  “Yep,” she says proudly. “I cut the stencil myself.”

  Sebastien clears his throat as he comes out of the back room carrying a pile of empty wine crates, which he stacks in the corner.

  “Okay, almost all by myself,” she amends.

  “I was thinking—maybe we should get Smacker to help us.”

  “Oh, could we?” she says to Sebastien, almost begging with eyes wide.

  “Smacker has other duties.” Sebastien hefts another crate of wine glasses from behind the bar, his torso bending and straining with the weight.

  I look away. “Oh yeah?” I say casually. “Other duties, huh?” Kid Aert duties, most likely. I bet by tomorrow there will be another story on him from a hit nearby.

  “What if I do the pouty face?” Vivi says.

  Sebastien pins her with a raised eyebrow as he walks over and hands me an X-ACTO knife. I snatch it, worried about our fingers lingering, but then he leans over to press his lips to my cheek, once, twice, three times. His hand at my elbow. His fingers dragging lighting across my forearms so goosebumps raise up to meet his touch. A shiver up my spine. I squeeze the knife handle.

  He drops his hand and pulls away slowly. “Are you worried we can’t handle it?”

  “N-no,” I stutter. Sebastien seems so confident in that moment, so poised, it would seem ridiculous if I asked for backup.

  “Good.” He turns and goes back to moving crates. I shuffle toward the dotted stencil, extend the blade, and crisply slice the paper to reveal the outline beneath. With each slash, I call myself stupid over and over.

  I got distracted. By Chelsea’s visit. By Vivi. By my emancipation. Now by Sebastien. I should have Smacker here in hand. I should have his confession about being Kid Aert.

  Sebastien saunters back over. He rolls up his sleeves, grabs his own X-ACTO knife, and begins slicing the cardboard next to me. We move in unison. Vivi falls into the background as she gathers cans of paint and yards of rope.

  I feel warm and pleasant with him working next to me and our rhythm becomes easier. Meditative. Almost like the swish of my pencil against paper. Making it easy to zone out. Easy to forget why I’m really here. I haven’t actually drawn in a while.

  That’s when I have to admit it to myself—I’m not doing this graffiti job because I need Smacker. This one. This design.

  Smacker, Kid Aert, that will come. But before that I’m doing this.

  This I’m doing for me.

  ~~~~~

  Gros Cochon headquarters, Brussels, Belgium

  After we all have a go at the six-story Art Deco office building with the binoculars from a few blocks away, we head directly to the sidewalk corner teeming with business suits on their way home from work.

  Sebastien clenches his fists around his backpack straps and bounces lightly on his toes. I feel the same energy coursing through me. Even Vivi shuffles from foot to foot.

  “Pret?” he asks.

  “Ready,” we echo.
<
br />   Vivi heads inside holding a map. We wait until she exits, the lone, portly security guard by her side. He points down the street, giving her directions. We slip in through the glass entrance, past the now unmanned front desk, and into the stairwell.

  It’s a quick sprint up six flights as I keep pace with Sebastien. At the sixth floor the stairs continue up one floor to the roof.

  We exit the hutch to the brisk Brussels air.

  Weapons—broken-off stones and glass. Exits—none, of course, except off the side of the roof. Many of the surrounding buildings are steel and glass, rising stories above us, but the offices are empty, so only cubicles and office chairs study us in return.

  A biting wind stings my cheeks, but having learned my lesson from the billboard rooftop, I’ve already secured my curls in a headband.

  Sebastien and I walk to the edge of the roof, looking over the front of the building. Vivi still has the security guard enraptured. The map’s put away and she’s charming him with a story about how she was lost in Paris one time. They walk back inside the building—she was supposed to ask to use the restroom and then, eventually, for a tour of their product sampling center even though she’d slit her throat before she actually ate any Cochon products. Still, of the three of us, she’s the only one who can talk her way into a company after closing.

  As the front door shuts, Sebastien drops his backpack. He pulls out the stencil and hands me an end. We unfurl it like a flag until it pulls taut. When unfolded, the masterpiece is revealed—a recreation of Leonardo Da Vinci’s The Last Supper, with a pig in each seat at a long table. The Judas traitor pig is wearing Cochon colors.

  We jointly drop it over the edge of the building and yank back the ties to attach to the ladder. We hear a few cries from below—pedestrians who have noticed—and know our stopwatch is ticking.

  He drops his backpack and reaches in for some rope. Then he pulls out rappel gear and tosses me a can of paint and a mask.

  We belt into the rope. He pulls me against him and hooks into my belt and wraps his arms around me. His face brushes against mine, cheek to cheek.

  “Ready?” he asks.

  “Prêt.”