Goth Girl

by Melanie Mosher

  Rachael wasn’t even looking at the screen. She was looking at her phone and admiring her manicured nails. Russell and Peter were looking at the pictures but it was hard to tell what they were thinking. Every once in a while Russell brushed the curls from his eyes, and Peter would tap his foot, but those were the only signs of life they showed. Then I looked at Zach. He was sitting up straight and focused. When the screen changed to the next picture he nodded and smiled. He really looked interested, even if he claimed not to be.

  This was a chance to be a part of a really big piece of art that the whole city would see. I wanted to say, “Okay, I’m in.” But I just sat there and said nothing.

  “So what if we don’t plan the mural?” asked Russell.

  “Then it will be a long eight weeks.” Cathy looked at each of us again. “You can all paint. We know that, because that’s how you got here in the first place. Why not make a painting others can admire? The longer we spend here planning, the less time we have to actually produce the mural.”

  “Maybe we’ll just slap some paint on the fence and call it a day.” Peter looked like he had figured out a way to beat the system, and he was proud.

  “Yeah, we’ll say it’s abstract art,” added Russell. They both chuckled.

  “I guess there’s no stopping you from doing that,” answered Cathy. “But keep in mind: your names will also be on the fence. Whether you do a good job or not is up to you.” She hit the remote again and the screen went blank.

  Russell stopped laughing and leaned over to Peter. “Cool. My name on a piece of art for all to see? I guess it wouldn’t hurt to make it look good.”

  “True,” said Peter. No one else spoke, but all five of us nodded.

  Cathy made one last comment: “We are wrapping up early today because it’s our first session, but I want you all to get a sketchpad and think of ideas over the next week. It will help make our next meeting more productive.”

  “Homework? Are you kidding?” Zach got up, took out his phone, and immediately headed for the door. He had his head down and was in such a hurry to leave, he walked right into me. “Oh. Sorry.”

  I tried to speak, but instead I felt myself blush. Jeeze, keep it together, Vic. His chest was hard and muscular. His eyes were the same bluish-green as deep ocean water in cheesy tourist ads for Caribbean vacation packages. I stared, searching for words, making a total fool of myself. I finally found my tongue again. “No problem.” I moved aside so he could pass. But he didn’t.

  “How’d you end up here?” He looked me up and down. I wasn’t sure if I should be flattered or insulted.

  “I heard this was the most exciting place to be on a Saturday morning, so I begged them to let me be a part of the group.”

  Zach chuckled. His eyes sparkled when he laughed. “Really? That’s exactly what I did. I guess it must be true.” He paused, and then said, “So, do you like to paint?”

  “Yeah. I like the look of good graffiti. I like the bold colours and the heavy lines.” Man, I was blabbering like an idiot.

  “Really? The bold colours?” A cocky smirk formed on his lips. “The only thing close to a bold colour on you is those beautiful blue eyes.” My cheeks burned but I refused to look away. “But you like colour?” He shook his head and smiled. “Okay. If you say so.”

  “I do say so,” I snapped. I wasn’t sure if I was angry at him for being a jerk or at myself for being so sappy. What was up with this guy? He was everything I usually avoided: the brand-name clothes, the perfect hair, the movie-star teeth. His strong shoulders and hard muscles indicated hours spent at the gym with other meatheads. And yet, I smiled. Those eyes. And the way he had looked at the graf on the screen—he’d been completely absorbed. There was more to this rich kid than the way he looked.

  “I gotta go. My dad’s waiting for me. See ya next time.” He flashed another smile.

  His grin actually made me feel woozy.

  Dammit.

  When I got home Mom was in the living room sitting on the couch sipping tea from a cup with Princess Diana’s face on it. I wanted to walk by and go straight up to my room without getting interrogated, but no such luck.

  “So, how was it?” asked Mom.

  “Fine.” I could feel my stomach start to knot and my shoulders get heavy. I knew she was going to ask a ton of questions I didn’t feel like answering.

  “Were you painting the whole time?”

  The way she said painting made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I glared at her. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “We have to plan the mural first, and no one wanted to speak up and give ideas.”

  “That’s silly. Why didn’t you just say what you thought?”

  Ugh. Just stop already, Mom. “It’s not that easy. They already think I’m a freak and a kiss-up.” I didn’t want to suggest something they didn’t like and have them think I was stupid too.

  Mom sighed, put her teacup on the coffee table, and got up from the couch. “Since when do you care what others think? You sure don’t care what I think, or you’d clean that stuff off your face and stay out of trouble.”

  So here we were—at the familiar impasse—not hearing or understanding each other. For a moment, I thought of the others around the table today. What was it like with their parents? Did Rachael get along with her mother? Did Russell bond with his dad? I thought I bonded with James. But obviously, not enough.

  I felt reckless all of a sudden. “Do you miss him?” I asked her.

  Mom looked like a cornered animal. “Who?”

  She knew exactly who I was talking about.

  “James.”

  “I don’t want to talk about him. Stop trying to change the subject.” Mom grabbed her cup and walked away. I heard her in the kitchen, clanging dishes and banging cupboard doors.

  ____

  Questions buzzed in my head all week, making it hard to concentrate on anything else. How did Zach end up in the group? Was he picked up by the cops too? Did he have a girlfriend? He might be all pastel polo shirts and expensive watches, but he also had a pretty quick wit and lots of creative talent. Or maybe that was just for show. After all, that’s kind of what I did. No one really knew what I was thinking—ever—because I’d mastered the art of a snarky clap-back and a blank expression whenever anyone said something that annoyed me. I was a good actor. Maybe Zach was too.

  I picked up my math notebook and printed Z-A-C-H on the cover with plain capitals, then in cursive writing. I added curly tails and fancy strokes. I tried big bubble letters and large block letters. Some I left clear, some I shaded to create dimension. I even added colour to some. Before I knew it, the entire front of my book was covered in Zach’s name. I started to blush. Thankfully, I was alone in my room, and no one could see what I’d done.

  I’d never felt this way before. It was strange, but exciting, like the adrenalin rush I get from tagging. Maybe Zach was a new way to feel a thrill. I tried to not think of him, but that just made it worse. I tried doing math homework and found myself wondering what he was doing. I tried to read but kept picturing him in that tight shirt. I tried to think about what I might paint if I went out, but when I thought of mixing colours I was reminded of Zach’s turquoise eyes and cocky smile.

  Dammit.

  ____

  At lunchtime on Monday, I sat in my usual spot in the cafeteria with Justine.

  “Hey,” she said, pulling one ear bud from her ear as I sat down.

  “Hi.” I took a swig of milk.

  “How did the ‘painting with potential prisoners’ go on the weekend?” she asked.

  I was surprised Justine remembered. And I was impressed with her sense of humour—she rarely made jokes.

  “Okay,” I said. I shrugged and picked up my slice of pizza.

  Justine nodded and went back to eating her lunch.

  As
I chewed, I thought of telling Justine more about the group. It was one thing not to talk to Mom, but there was no reason not to talk with Justine. We weren’t really friends, but there was no harm in chatting.

  “The other kids are kind of a drag. There’s Russell and Peter. They’re like twin punks. They laugh at each other’s jokes and fist bump.” I glanced at Justine and she rolled her eyes. I nodded. “Yup. Then there is Rachael. She is a living Barbie doll with perfect hair and manicured nails. She flirts with Russell and Peter and they practically drool over her. It’s hilarious.” I paused, trying to sound casual. “Then there’s Zach. He looks like a spoiled rich kid, but….” I waved my hand in front of my face, trying to brush away my words. I didn’t mean to word it like that.

  Justine sat up straight, took out the other ear bud, and then leaned in closer. “Tell me more.” She nodded encouragement.

  “Nothing.”

  “You started to tell me so you might as well finish.” Justine smiled, and she seemed sincere. So I spilled my guts.

  “He wears nothing but brand names. You know, Under Armor pants with his Ralph Lauren shirt. His sunglasses cost more than my whole wardrobe. He obviously goes to the gym because he’s built. But he’s cocky with a sharp tongue, and kind of rude.”

  “And you like him,” said Justine. It wasn’t a question.

  “No I don’t.” I said way too quickly.

  Justine arched an eyebrow and tilted her head to side as if to say, “Yeah. Right.”

  “Well, I don’t know if I do or not,” I admitted, squirming in my seat a little.

  “I say you do, and I know why.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “‘A sharp tongue and kind of rude?’ Doesn’t that sound like someone you know?” Justine stared at me.

  I pointed my finger at my chest. “You mean me? No way, I’m always so sweet and full of manners. Maybe it’s that opposites attract?” I laughed.

  It felt good to talk to Justine. But conversations about boys and boyfriends made me uneasy. I had a thing for this guy, Tony, last year, but it never went anywhere. He sat with me a few times in the cafeteria, but that was it. His friends gave him a hard time for hanging out with a “girl who looked like that” so he ditched me. After that, I just kept to myself and didn’t even think about dating. Until now.

  “Whatever. I don’t think I’m girlfriend material.” I looked over at Justine. I’d never seen her with a guy, either, now that I thought about it. Another thing we had in common.

  “Don’t look at me,” she put her hands up. “I’m not one to give dating advice.”

  I thought of Mom and James. I sure didn’t learn anything about relationships from them: they argued most of the time. The only time they seemed genuinely happy was on Sunday nights when they’d curl up on the couch, eat popcorn, and watch old movies together. They both loved Gone With the Wind and Casablanca.

  “I guess I’m on my own, then.” I smiled and rolled my eyes.

  “Maybe the best place to start is to actually talk to him,” Justine suggested. We both laughed and spent the rest of lunch chatting before the bell rang.

  On our way to history, we passed by Mark and Jeremy in the hall.

  “Oooh look!” called Mark. “I think we have a new couple at school.” He wolf-whistled and pointed to Justine and me.

  “A couple of losers, you mean,” said Jeremy.

  Mark and Jeremy laughed at their own lame joke.

  “Russell and Peter?” Justine looked at me and pointed back at the two boys still laughing.

  “Exactly.” I nodded. “Why do they always come in pairs?”

  Justine shook her head as we entered the classroom.

  Mr. Jones started talking about the history of Pier 21 in Halifax and the thousands of immigrants who landed here from all over the world. He talked about ancestors and how interesting it could be to trace families over generations. He said we should consider our own family trees and see if we could find any connection to Pier 21.

  Stuff like this always bummed me out: I knew Mom was an only child and her parents lived in England, but I had never met them. Dad’s side of the family was a complete blank, and James left. Guess there wasn’t much to think about in the story of Vic Markham.

  Soon my thoughts drifted to Zach and the mural. I stopped listening to Mr. Jones, tore a piece of loose leaf from my binder, and picked up my pencil. I liked the feeling of holding a pencil, moving it across the page, hearing the faint scratch of lead on paper, and watching as the picture came to life. I thought I was doodling aimlessly but before my eyes, a picture of Zach suddenly took shape. Once I realized what I was drawing, I tried to remember every detail—the broad shoulders in that tight shirt, the way he stood with his thumbs in his pockets, the cocky grin…those eyes. I sighed. The thought of those eyes that made me wriggle in my seat.

  I wondered what kind of art he did. For me, graffiti always came out in a hurry—a sort of explosion of emotion—but this art project was going to be different. I was supposed to be taking the time to think carefully about the finished piece and what others would think of it. Mr. Jones’s voice kept interrupting my daydream. Maybe we could we include history in the design of project? Maybe a sketchbook was a good idea after all. I decided when I got paid I’d go get one.

  ____

  After school I strolled home thinking through ideas for the mural. I was enjoying the chance to be creative. The sun was out but there was still a bit of coolness in the spring air. Lawns were beginning to turn green, and muddy leaves clung to the edge of the sidewalks. Mom was outside cleaning spent blossoms and dead weeds from the flower bed by our front doorstep. She hadn’t worked in the garden since James left. Maybe this was a good sign. I practically skipped up the driveway.

  “Hey.” I dropped my backpack and went over to kneel beside Mom. “Remember the year we planted sunflower seeds here?” I thought of the bright yellow petals and black seeds on tall stalks gently waving in the breeze.

  “Yes.” Mom looked at me and smiled. “You came out and checked on them every day to see if they had sprouted. You could hardly wait for them to come up through the dirt. I had to keep reminding you that you couldn’t uncover them to see how they were doing.”

  “I know.” I laughed and leaned against Mom’s shoulder. It felt good, like old times. “I think you even took a picture with me beside the flowers when they finally bloomed. They were as tall as me.”

  “That’s right,” said Mom, nodding. I was glad she remembered too. “So, how was school?” She bent forward, again, digging in the soil.

  “It was okay.” I paused. “Mr. Jones was talking about Pier 21 and family trees. Did any of my relatives come to Canada through there?”

  Mom sat back with her legs still bent beneath her. “No. I flew on a plane from England when I was twenty-one.”

  “What about Dad’s side of the family?”

  Mom’s eyes instantly went from being filled with happy nostalgia to anger. “Look. Your dad’s dead and I don’t know anything about his family. I thought we had this conversation years ago.” Mom got up and brushed off her pants.

  “Jeeze, I was just thinking about it because Mr. Jones brought up the subject. Sorry I asked.” Way to overreact, Mom. I stood up too. I guess there wasn’t going to be any mother-daughter gardening today. So much for happy memories.

  “Well, just forget it,” Mom said. “I’m your family, and that’s all you need.”

  How warm and comforting.

  Mom stooped to gather her bucket and trowel. She turned and went into the house, letting the door slam shut behind her.

  I trudged back to the driveway to get my backpack.

  On Friday I stopped into the store and picked up my paycheque. I hadn’t planned on telling Mr. Habib about my illegal activity, but I had to explain to him why I couldn’t work Saturdays for the next
little bit. He wasn’t happy about it, but he fixed the schedule so I’d work two weekday evenings or a Sunday instead.

  “But don’t let your grades slip,” he warned.

  Who does he think he is, my father? Oh yeah, I forgot. I don’t have one of those.

  He even tried to get me to talk about why I would break the law. “You are so smart, Victoria. Too smart for that.” He shook his head and waved his hands as he talked.

  “I know, but—”

  “You have things rough, but that’s no excuse.” He looked me fiercely in the eye.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Everyone has rough. Me, I came to this country with nothing. But I work hard. And I’m grateful to have the opportunity. You have a talent. Use it. But use it for good. Good like you.” He placed his hand on my shoulder and nodded. He believed what he was saying.

  I swallowed my snarky retort and thanked him for the money and the advice. I hurried out of the store and down the sidewalk. It was four o’clock and the traffic was starting to build with people anxious to start their weekends early. I crossed a busy intersection and some guy waiting for a red light hollered at me out his window. Adults are so quick to judge. I flipped him off. Judge this.

  I felt a twinge of guilt when I remembered Mr. Habib’s words, but I quickly squashed it and picked up the pace. I wanted to get my sketchbook and start drawing as soon as possible.

  I was thinking of what I might draw, which made me think of what I’d already created. I wasn’t far from my favourite graf spot, so I veered off course. I had meant to come back before this and get a photograph of the piece I’d gotten caught doing. I wondered if the city had a chance to patch it yet. I hoped I wasn’t too late.

  I crawled over the guardrail and down the bank. I could smell the harbour and the zooming rush-hour traffic overhead. I couldn’t tell if it was the vibrations of all the vehicles or my anticipation that was making my hands shake. I held my breath and rounded the corner slowly. I spotted some unfamiliar tags—I guess I wasn’t the only one who used this spot. My eyes moved along the concrete toward my graffiti. I caught a glimpse of grey. My heart sank. The breath I was holding came out as a heavy sigh but still I forced one foot in front of the other.