by Paula Stokes
“So you can’t do anything stupid.”
“Come on, Trin. I was just going for a drive.” I hold out my hand.
She curls her fingers around my skull-and-crossbones key ring. “You promised, Micah. I can’t handle a repeat of last year.” She’s fourteen and dressed like a cartoon character, yet she somehow manages to sound exactly like our mother.
“Give me my keys,” I say softly.
“Tell me where you’re going.” She purses her lips.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But I promise you I don’t want a repeat of last year either.”
Chapter 2
April 5, last year
The night was cold for mid-April. I pulled a sweatshirt over my Black Flag T-shirt and slipped the hood up over my head. Gathering my paint cans into my backpack, I tiptoed down the hallway and paused for a minute outside my sister’s bedroom. If she was awake, she would hear me. She would say something.
Part of me wanted her to say something.
Part of me didn’t.
I needed this. This “outlet for grief,” as the family shrink would have called it. That is, if we could still afford the family shrink.
Besides, it wasn’t like I was hurting anybody.
I leaned my ear close to Trinity’s bedroom door but couldn’t hear her moving around in there.
How could she sleep, tonight of all nights?
Shaking my head, I crossed the living room in a few strides, expertly cutting between the sharp corner of the coffee table and the TV stand. I had oiled the front door’s hinges after school and it opened like a whisper.
I paused on the porch, listening to my harsh breathing, to the drum solo my heart was pounding out in my chest. I was still telling myself that I hadn’t spent all day planning to hit the airport, that my decision was impulsive—something rash brought on by a sudden bout of pain.
But there was nothing sudden about my pain.
I walked halfway down the block to where I had parked my car, yet another piece of evidence that hinted at premeditation. I wondered what I would say if the cops caught me, whether I would lie and tell them it was a sudden impulse.
The drive across town was short and uneventful. It was after midnight on a weekday and the streets were mostly bare. I parked my car behind The Devil’s Doorstep. With trembling fingers, I unclicked my seat belt and glanced around. The lights in the club were off—the parking lot empty except for one rust bucket that had probably broken down after a show.
I slipped out of my car and headed across the gravel toward the strip of trees at the back of the lot. The trees led to a fence. Beyond that, the airport. The giant runways stretching out like so much blank canvas.
It wasn’t like I was a big graffiti artist or anything. I’d tagged only a few things, and always with the same image—an H and a J with a noose between them—the logo of my dad’s old band, Hangman’s Joke. I had done it on the side of a train, an underpass, and a couple of abandoned buildings.
I’d been thinking about the airport for a while. It was riskier, but tonight needed to be big, bold. Sweeping. Tonight I was going to do the abandoned terminal. And then a runway. Maybe two. There was just something about all that flat concrete that called out to me.
I made quick work of climbing the ten-foot chain-link fence, ignoring the sign about trespassing. Dropping to the ground on the other side, I reached out with one of my hands to keep from face-planting in the wet grass. Then I cut across the nearest runway, dodging the glow of fluorescent overhead lights as I went. I made my way around the edge of the abandoned terminal.
My heart had finished its drum solo. Strangely enough, now that I was in more danger, I felt calm. Tagging did that for me. The hiss of the spray can. The sharp scent of chemicals. In a moment, I would be in the zone. Glancing around, I pulled a bright blue can of paint out of my backpack. I shook it, hesitantly at first, and then harder. I shot a stream of color at the cool metal of the terminal wall, just to make sure the paint was flowing properly. Then I tested the breeze and positioned myself upwind. If my mom caught me sneaking in looking like the victim of a paintball massacre, she would know what I’d been up to.
I left my backpack against the corner of the terminal and picked a spot that was slightly illuminated by the nearest overhead light, but far enough away so that I could hide in the shadows while I worked. I started by outlining the H and J as always. The paint spewed from the can, and with it some of the feelings that were all twisted up inside me.
I stepped back as I swirled the can in an arc. My dad was dead, and the rest of the band had formed a new group without him. This was the best way I knew how to keep him alive. People would see this and talk. Even if it was only a handful of airport personnel who saw it, they would tell people.
People talk about everything, even the stuff they don’t care about.
Especially the stuff they don’t care about.
And once the airport came with its solvents and paint and erased my work, I’d wait a couple of weeks and do it again. Or maybe a couple of months. I never quite knew when the urge to tag would hit me.
After outlining the letters, I filled them in with blue and shadowed them with black. I was putting the finishing touches on the noose when the darkness rippled around me. I stopped painting and scanned the area, but I didn’t see anything. No movement. No lights. Still, the air suddenly felt heavy with tension. I turned toward the corner of the terminal.
My backpack was gone.
“This yours?” An airport security guard materialized from the shadows. He wore a bright blue TSA uniform. My backpack dangled from his gloved hand.
Behind him stood two local cops—one guy, one woman. The guy looked only a couple of years older than me. The lady cop was closer to my mom’s age. She had her taser drawn and looked like she might be hoping to use it.
“Down on the ground,” she said.
I knew better than to argue. I lowered myself to my knees and laced my fingers behind my head.
“All the way down, on your stomach,” the guy cop added.
I got down flat, turning my head and pressing one cheek against the cool asphalt runway. My heart started rattling around in my chest again. This was going to be my third arrest. My mom was going to kill me. Worse, she was going to blame herself, as if she were the reason I was such a giant screwup.
Parents, always trying to take the credit for everything.
“Look,” I started, trying to sound extra remorseful. “What if I walk away and promise never to come back?”
“It’s a little late for that,” the woman cop said.
“I’ll pay for it. Or clean it myself,” I said. I hated the thought of erasing what I’d done, but I hated the thought of my mom crying behind her closed bedroom door even more.
Off to the side, I could see the boots of the TSA agent pacing back and forth in front of me as he talked to someone on his phone. He was using words like suspect apprehended and terror threat mitigated.
“I think you mean contained,” I said helpfully. “Mitigated just means lessened.” It was stupid to be smarting off, but I didn’t appreciate the guy talking about me like I’d been skulking around the airport with a backpack full of plastic explosives.
The TSA agent ignored me.
The lady cop bent down on one knee. “I’ll never understand tagging,” she said. “What is it that makes it worth the possibility of getting thrown in jail?”
Maybe if I told her the truth she’d take pity on me and let me off with a warning. “It’s the logo for my dad’s band. He died. This is how I keep him alive.”
“Why here? Why not just go paint on canvas or something?”
“My mom started selling his stuff the other day. His clothes, his amp, even his favorite guitar. Shit we kept around for five years, and suddenly she’s getting rid of it. I guess I needed to do something major to compensate.”
“You should have picked a lower-profile place,” she said.
Handcuffs gli
mmered in the night. So much for pity. Sighing, I laid my wrists on the small of my back.
“I see you’re familiar with this procedure.”
I didn’t answer. It sounded like a rhetorical question.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Micah Foster.”
The cuffs slid onto my wrists. One more thing I was familiar with. “What are we going to find when we run your information, Micah Foster?” The cop tightened the cuffs, but not so tight that they cut into my skin.
“A couple of counts of vandalism,” I mumbled. “And trespassing.”
The guy cop walked over and hauled me to my feet. I pitched forward and nearly face-planted for the second time that night, but the lady cop reached out and steadied me.
“Repeat offender, huh?” she said. “Don’t expect to get off easy.”
Chapter 3
I didn’t get off easy, either. I ended up spending six weeks in juvie. Every time my mom came to visit, her eyes were red from crying. I’ve never felt like a bigger douchebag. Well, except for maybe right now, when my baby sister is looking at me like I ran over her pet Pokémon.
“Seriously, Trin,” I say. “No repeat of last year.”
“So when I give you these keys, you’re not going to go tag something?”
“Well, the part I wasn’t planning on repeating is the part where I got caught,” I joke, trying to lighten the moment.
Trinity crosses her arms and huffs. “You’re not funny, Micah. This night is hard for me too, you know. Being without Dad sucks. Thinking about him dying sucks.” Her eyes water. “But do you have any idea what it did to Mom to see you in handcuffs? How can you even joke about doing that to her again?”
I exhale hard, my shoulders slouching forward like I’m deflating. “Sorry.”
Trinity softens. “I get it, you know. I freak out too sometimes. I want to . . . do whatever it takes to feel better.” She fiddles with a streak of bright green hair that’s coming loose from her left bun. “But isn’t there something that won’t get you arrested? I mean, can’t you just, I don’t know, bake something?”
It’s not as ridiculous as it sounds. I sometimes throw myself into a new recipe when my brain starts to fill up with dark thoughts. Baking from scratch is a lot harder than people realize. When you’re cooking meat, you’ve got a window of “not raw” to “not burned” to work with. In baking, your ratios of flour to liquid to leavening agent have to be just right or your product will fail massively. But tonight’s not the night for activities that require a lot of patience or attention to detail, and my sister knows that.
“Oh, sure. Want to help?” I smirk. “We can call them My Dad’s Still Dead Brownies. Maybe Mom will want to take some to work for sharing.”
“Fine. Bad idea,” Trinity admits. “But there’s got to be another way for you to get through these nights. You want to see what I’ve been working on?”
I shrug. “Sure.”
I let Trin lead me into her room. Just inside the door hangs a bulletin board full of quotes she’s printed off the internet. She’s doodled different shapes and flowers around the various passages. A giant collage of pictures—everything from girls in dresses to wild animals to foreign cities—takes up the wall opposite her bed. Her bedroom is so bright and full of life—totally different from mine.
She goes to the closet and pulls out a shimmery black dress that reminds me a little of the one Amber was wearing. But this one has razored slash marks all down the front of it.
“You cut up clothing? I guess that’s better than vandalism.”
Trinity laughs again. “I was thinking maybe this.” She pulls a bright blue shirt from a hanger and positions it beneath the slash marks so that the fabric peeks through. “What do you think?”
It actually looks really cool, like something Amber might wear onstage. “Awesome,” I say. “Not sure if Mom’ll let you wear that to school though.”
“Well, you know, I’m going to be a freshman next year. Never too early to start planning for Homecoming.”
“Homecoming, huh?” Most girls Trinity’s age probably force their mothers to buy them expensive dresses. “Are you going to put a pair of shoes in the garbage disposal so they’ll match?”
“I haven’t decided about shoes yet,” she says completely seriously. “Are you and Amber going to prom?”
“I hope not,” I say, knowing full well that I’ll take her if she wants to go.
“How come she didn’t come inside?” Trinity asks.
So, that feeling of someone watching us wasn’t just paranoia. “Jeez. You’ve become a regular little stalker.”
“Whatevz.” Trinity rolls her eyes. “I heard her Jeep pull up. I just wanted to show her my dress.”
“Sorry, she wanted to come in. I just didn’t feel much like company.”
“Does she know what tonight is?”
I shake my head quickly. “She knows how he died, but none of the specifics. I tried, but there’s no easy way to tell someone about your dad’s murder.”
“You never even told me,” Trinity says. “I still don’t get why you act like that night was your fault. Like maybe if you’d gone inside the store with him everything might have turned out differently.”
“Maybe it would’ve.”
“Yeah, maybe we would’ve lost both of you.”
I know logically she’s right. I was an eleven-year-old kid. I couldn’t have saved my dad from a robber. Too bad logic goes only so far when you’re blaming yourself for the giant Dad-sized hole in your family’s life. The store clerk told the cops my dad tried to talk the guy into putting down his gun, and that’s when he got shot. Maybe if I had been with him he would’ve gotten down on the floor like everyone else. Or maybe not, because that wasn’t Dad’s style. He was friends with everyone. It never would have occurred to him that someone would shoot him point-blank in the chest just for talking.
If Trinity knew the whole story, she’d say it wasn’t my fault, even if she secretly did blame me, because she’s a good sister like that. But I don’t want to put that pain on her. It’s bad enough she lost her dad. “There’s no point in dredging all that up, Trin,” I say finally.
She shrugs. “There is if it would help you. My homeroom teacher says you’re not supposed to keep stuff bottled up. Did you at least tell Dr. Harper?”
Ah, Dr. Harper. The shrink Mom made us go to for a few months. I know Dr. H meant well, but she never really told me anything I didn’t already know. Basically, she was a self-help book in high heels.
“I told the cops,” I say sharply. “They’re the only ones who needed to hear all the gory details.”
“Maybe.” Trinity does a belly flop onto her bed. She twirls her green streak around one finger. “But sometimes it’s like you’ve got that night on infinite repeat, Micah. You keep finding new ways to punish yourself. And you’re not the only one who suffers. Mom. Me. Now Amber.”
I start to tell her she’s wrong, but then bite back the words. Maybe my life has been nothing but a series of springtime screwups. Did I go off to the airport last year because I subconsciously wanted to get caught? Did I push Amber away because I want her to be mad at me?
It’s too much for my tired brain to handle, but I know one thing for sure. I can’t make any epic mistakes if I don’t leave the house. “I’m going to crash,” I mutter. “I’ll try to be less of a failure at life tomorrow. Good night.” Without waiting for Trinity’s response, I return to my room.
But I can’t sleep. The if onlys swirl around me. I grab my phone and check out my favorite app—a recipe-sharing system sponsored by David Dark, a rock musician turned celebrity pastry chef. There are a few new adds, including something that looks cool called Chocolate Mousse Trifecta. It’s a layer of devil’s food cake topped with dark and light chocolate mousse. Too bad I don’t really like chocolate.
I call my friend Leo who lives in an apartment downstairs. He’s more of a sports guy than a music guy, but somet
imes we grab a pizza and kick it in front of a movie. He doesn’t answer. Probably because he’s spending Friday night with his girlfriend, like I should be.
I bury my head under my pillow, but the if onlys find me there too. I block them out as I count to ten. I count to a hundred. I count halfway to a thousand. Right when I reach number 511, a soft knock jolts me from my reverie. “Yeah?” I say wearily.
Trinity pushes open my door. “Think fast.” She tosses me my keys. “I didn’t mean to keep those. And you’re not a failure at life. Sorry if I came off like a bitch before.”
I yawn. “I’m pretty sure it’s physically impossible for anyone wearing Mickey Mouse ears to come off like a bitch.”
“Mickey Mouse ears?” Trinity raises a hand to her chest in mock horror. “These are Princess Leia buns.” She reaches up to squeeze each of them and then adds, “Like from Star Wars,” as if maybe I’m not familiar with Princess Leia.
“You’ve got them up too high. Here, let me help.” I slide off my bed and consider the ball of hair pinned to each side of my sister’s head.
“Don’t wreck them.”
“Whatever, Mickey,” I say in my best Donald Duck voice. It isn’t very good, but Trinity laughs anyway. I carefully adjust her buns so they’re flatter and curl more on top of her ears than above them. “Remember how Dad used to act all obsessed with Princess Leia?”
Trinity snickers. “And then Mom would get all huffy.” She checks out her hair in the mirror on my closet.“Not bad.” She turns to face me, her eyes coming to rest on the car keys in the center of my bed. “You know, we could go to the cemetery . . .” She trails off.
“No,” I bark, my voice harsher than intended. I haven’t been back to my dad’s grave since the funeral. My mom goes every month with flowers. She says it comforts her. I think it’s creepy. I hope when I die someday that I get cremated and dumped in the river or something. I don’t want to lie around in a coffin for all eternity.