I turned to the two men and put my hand out to shake on the deal. “Of course I’m in. Do you think Dumb and Dumber here could handle it without me? Not a chance.” I looked back at Russell and Peter and winked.
Rachael and Zach walked down the street toward Zach’s car.
I watched them for a moment and felt empty, like a gutted fish.
Peter, Russell, and I stood there waiting for Cathy. When she arrived we quickly got to work painting and avoided talking about what had just happened. No one answered when she asked where Rachael and Zach were. Every time I heard a car approach, I turned to see if it was them. I bet they were somewhere having breakfast and laughing at the dumb look on my face. I hoped they both choked on their eggs.
It seemed to take forever before Cathy let us go for the day.
I was almost home when I heard a car pull over beside me.
“Vic.”
I turned automatically when I heard my name. Once I realized it was Zach I turned back around and began to walk faster. I really didn’t want to talk to him—the wound was still fresh, and I couldn’t count on keeping it together.
He killed the engine and I heard the door open and close. Zach jogged to catch up to me.
“Vic. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He reached for my shoulder but I dodged and kept walking. He followed.
Then I took a deep breath and stopped. I guess I might as well deal with this now. I turned to face him. “Don’t worry about it.” I gave no indication that I accepted his apology. “I was just another way to piss off your dad. I get it.”
“No.” He tried to reach for me again, but I swatted his hand away. “I really like you.”
“You have a funny way of showing it.”
He stepped closer and took my hand before I could stop him. “Listen. You’re a great artist. We had fun,” he said ogling me. “I was just scared. Dad was right there. He invited Rachael and her father over and one thing led to the next.” He tried that sketching thing with his thumb on my hand.
He pleaded his case pretty convincingly, but my mind was made up. I wriggled my hand free.
“No, Zach. You were only thinking about yourself. I can’t believe I ever thought you actually cared. You’re as phony as Rachael.” I started to turn away. “You two make a great pair. Maybe someday you’ll grow up and realize you can’t use people.”
I fought to keep my voice steady. Then I turned on my heel and walked away. I heard Zach call my name, but I didn’t turn back.
I began to cry, feeling stupid for falling in love so easily and being so quick to trust some guy I barely knew. I walked around our block a few times, trying to calm down.
When I got home, I went straight up to my room and took out Zach’s sketch of me. On the next page I had drawn one of him, but he’d never see it. This one was a real portrait, not one of my quick doodles or cartoon graffiti images. I ran my fingers over his bright smile and found myself smiling back. I closed my eyes and could feel his warm arms around me, his lips on mine. I thought about our time together and tried to figure out how it had disintegrated so quickly. I didn’t come up with an answer, but I did realize one thing—Zach cared for me, and the proof was in his work. The portrait showed heart and feeling; each stroke had been carefully placed and blended to perfection. The likeness was spot-on, and even without colour, the charcoal showed depth and perspective. An artist couldn’t fake this…I knew because my drawing of him showed the same things. It reminded me of the picture my father was painting. I wondered if he had finished it.
I went to the kitchen to find something to eat. Mom looked up from her seat at the table.
“Hello, dear.”
“Hey, Mom.” We hadn’t talked since our big blow-up, and I wasn’t sure what to say.
“I took a call from a man who said he worked at the construction site where you’re painting. He said he got your number from Cathy, and he wanted to give you the location of the next mural.”
I held my breath. If Mom told him I wasn’t interested, that would be the end of it. I wanted to paint more than anything, and I would somehow, but I wanted it to be okay with Mom. “What’d you say?”
Mom looked at me and her eyes began to glisten. She reached her hand toward mine and squeezed my fingers.
“I took the address down and said you were looking forward to it. I told him you learned to paint from a friend of mine, but the real talent was all yours.”
I stood there, letting the words sink in.
“What changed your mind?”
“I saw all the drawings you were doing on the mail and on your scribblers. They’re good, Vic. It made me curious. I went over to the mural and tried to figure out what parts were yours. It’s incredible.” Mom shrugged and gave me a half smile.
“I know you don’t have great luck with painters.”
She winced and nodded. “And….” She turned and picked up a large rectangular package that was leaning against the wall. The brown paper was half torn off revealing the painting underneath. “This came in the mail yesterday.” She pulled the remainder of the paper off and I could see it was one of Dad’s paintings. I was little and running in the meadow. He had used soft pastel watercolors that were perfect for the picture. The muted tones made it look peaceful and content, like there was nowhere else to be at that moment. The colours were light and happy, just like the little girl. “I remember this day. You were so excited. I think you were chasing a butterfly. Look at the smile on your face.”
I looked and I couldn’t help but grin.
“You smile like that when you paint and even when you talk about art. I don’t want you to give up your painting. Another mural would be great.”
“Thanks.” I hugged her. “I’ll need something to paint because the fence is done next Saturday, and the city doesn’t seem to appreciate my graffiti.”
We laughed. I squeezed her tight and felt a genuine warmth I hadn’t felt for a long time. Suddenly, I wanted to share everything that had happened over the last month with her. I told her about meeting Zach and how wonderful it was to be important to another person. Then I told her about Rachael. I started to cry, which made her cry too. I knew Mom understood my pain.
“I know it’s tough, Vic, but you’ll survive this. You’re a strong girl.” Mom sighed and took a deep breath. “I could learn from you.”
I couldn’t remember the last time we had talked like this.
Mom wiped her face and looked at me with tenderness. “Let’s go see Richard.”
I couldn’t believe my ears.
“What?” I looked at Mom. Her eyes were still a bit red and puffy, but she was serious. “Are you sure?”
“I think so. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him. He was once the love of my life, you know. And I am sad that he’s sick.” She squared her shoulders and raised her chin. “Besides, he’s your father and that’s reason enough.”
We got to Elsie’s house and knocked on the door. My legs were shaking and my heart was beating fast.
Elsie opened the door and gasped, “Oh my gracious.”
She took a minute to see if we had come in peace, or if we were there for a fight. I guess she found her answer because she opened the door wide and let us in.
“Richard will be so surprised. And so happy.” Elsie gave each of us a hug and led us down the hall.
I entered the room first. “Hey, Dad.”
He was sitting in a chair beside his bed with his back to the door. He was completely focused on the easel in front of him and didn’t turn when I spoke. He was just adding his initials to the painting in front of him. “Just in time.”
“Guess who I brought with me?”
Still focused on the picture he replied, “I hope it’s not some guy. You’re too young to date. And besides, there’s not a man out there good enough for my daughter.”
> His tone was so dad-like it made me laugh.
“You’re right. No guy’s good enough for me.” I paused. “So I brought Mom instead.”
He whipped his head around and his eyes grew big. He tried to stand but his legs were too weak. He wobbled and sat again.
“Julia.” It was almost a whisper.
“Hello, Richard.”
I got up early on Saturday. I walked down the hall and glanced at the awkward portrait of Prince Charles and Lady Diana on the wall. They smiled like all was well, but I knew it was just a sham.
I ran my hand along the narrow table underneath the picture, remembering when James refinished it a couple of years ago. He had scraped and sanded away the old paint and varnish, exposing the beautiful natural wood underneath. Now that I was putting together a serious art portfolio, I missed him even more. He was a great teacher, and I was grateful that he taught me to paint, but I also knew that even if he hadn’t, I would have somehow found art on my own. After all, it was in my genes.
I went to my room and took the picture of Dad that Elsie had given me and placed it on the table. Two teachers.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror in my room. Today was the last day of the community art project. I decided to leave Goth Girl home today and let Vic Markham show up. My hair fell around my chin and my eyes were bright and visible. Not half bad. I grabbed a pair of jeans, reached in the back of my closet for a bright pink T-shirt, and headed out.
When I got to the hoarding, I admired our mural one last time. I strolled along the entire length of the fence. We really had created our vision of houses through time, from the early Mi’kmaw wigwams, through scenes of Port Royal, an Acadian village, Citadel Hill, the Hydrostone houses, apartment and condominium buildings, huge fancy homes, right through to my futuristic condominium skyscraper. Scattered amongst these main images were our representations of naval ships, universities, mobile homes, trailers, tents, and even an abandoned building that had been turned into a makeshift shelter. The different styles all worked together, creating a sense of community without losing individuality. I nodded and stood a little taller. Good job. We’d all worked hard and it showed.
As I stood there, Cathy and Officer Mitchell arrived.
“Hey, Vic,” said Cathy, as if nothing was dramatically different about my appearance. “It looks good, doesn’t it? You guys should all be pleased.”
“Yeah, we did a great job. Who would have thought a bunch of brats could come up with this?” I smiled.
“I did,” said Officer Mitchell. “I was counting on each and every one of you. Otherwise, this old cop might start to look like he was losing his touch.”
I looked up at him and noticed a difference in his face when he smiled—the wrinkles became laugh lines and the grey hair hinted at his experience. He didn’t look old; more like a proud father.
“Thanks for pushing me to take part in this program,” I told him shyly.
“And I thank you for your hard work.” He stuck his hand out to shake mine. “You’re a great artist.”
I shook his hand, accepting the compliment even though it felt awkward and unfamiliar.
The other delinquents arrived.
“Wow, look at you,” hooted Russell, giving me the thumbs up and a nod.
I blushed, feeling like I’d been caught undressed and off guard. “Stop gawking and pull up your pants. I’m tired of lookin’ at your underwear,” I shot back. But then I smiled.
“Nice,” said Peter. “Hey, Rachael, look at this. I think Vic’s here to win Zach back.”
I cringed. That’s not what I wanted. Was it? I missed his lips on mine and the way his cocky smile made me melt. I missed texting him and talking about nothing. I missed him.
Rachael stood there with Zach, her mouth hanging open.
“So, wait. You think that now that Zach’s decided to date a pretty girl, you should try to be pretty? That’s a little silly, don’t you think?”
It did sound silly. Zach looked at the ground and avoided my eye. That’s when I knew.
“Nope. Not interested.”
And I meant it.
“Well good, because it’s too late, anyway.” Rachael linked her arm through Zach’s and tossed her head so her shiny blonde hair rippled in the wind.
Zach shook Rachael’s arm away and stepped forward. “Hey, Vic. You look great.” He put his hand out to touch my shoulder. “We could give things another try, couldn’t we?” Rachael looked mutinous.
I stood there and stared into his beautiful turquoise eyes, but they didn’t pull me in like before. “You’d really drop Rachael—just like that—and get back with me just because I changed the way I look?”
Zach looked confused. “Of course. I love that you would do all this for me.” He reached for my hand.
I stepped back, astounded. “Rachael’s right. It’s too late. And you haven’t changed a bit.” I shook my head.
Zach hesitated, then turned back to Rachael. But she had already stomped off and was talking with Russell and Peter, her back determinedly to Zach.
Without another word, I returned to the fence to add my final touches to the mural. When everyone was satisfied that the mural was fully done, Cathy gathered us together. We attached an engraved plaque with our names on it, and she took our picture.
Rachael sidled up to me after the photo. “Hey, Vic, listen…I’m…I’m sorry about everything. I guess we were both fooled by Zach.”
“Don’t bother,” I snapped. “I was fooled by you, too. You knew I was seeing him and didn’t care! That bimbo stuff might be an act, but you being self-centred is genuine.”
Rachael raised her eyebrows and started to back away. “Well, whatever,” she said. Then she added: “but you do look pretty.”
“Maybe,” I said, “but it’s not me.”
I realized being Goth Girl wasn’t making me invisible; it was expressing who I was and who I wanted to be right now.
After everyone in the group had said their goodbyes, I headed back to Leeds Street alone.
____
Alone in my room, I stared at the graffiti poster. I honestly did like the look of street art, and I wasn’t ready to give it up. And I wasn’t ready to give up on Goth Girl, either.
I grabbed my backpack and headed out the door. But first, I put on my foundation, lipstick, eyeliner, and mascara. I spiked my hair and smiled at myself in the mirror. I decided to leave the pink T-shirt on. I felt the rush of adrenalin as I headed out the door. I couldn’t believe I was going to do graffiti again. In broad daylight.
I stepped out the back door. The bright sun was high in the sky with a promise of warmth. Two blue jays chirped happily.
I shook my cannon and the familiar rattle made my heart race. I took my time, making sure I got the details just right. The idea was unique, and the colours were perfect. I was so engrossed I didn’t hear the tires crunching the gravel.
“Turn around,” growled a familiar voice.
Startled, I dropped my cannon and listened to it roll across the driveway.
I turned around slowly, my heart pounding in my ears.
Then I laughed.
Officer Mitchell stood there smiling. He bent and picked up the runaway can. “Nice work.” He motioned to my painting and handed me back the cannon.
“It’s a new family picture,” I said, just as Mom came out the back door of our house.
I had painted Mom and myself as cartoon caricatures, on an oversized piece of stretched canvas. My large eyes were surrounded by heavy black eyeliner and mascara. My black spiked hair reached out and touched the edges of the piece. Mom was snuggled beside me with a crown on her head, decorated with a little red cross. She was holding a magazine—Learn to Paint—and we both had huge toothy smiles.
“I came to let you know you have officially completed your community servic
e hours,” said Officer Mitchell. He handed me a letter, verifying my time served.
“Well, you’re just in time to help us hang our new picture.” Mom smiled. “It’s going right over the couch.”
I beamed as I finished the tag on the corner of the canvas—oversized bubble letters that read “Goth Girl.”
I am not a great writer. I am not even sure I am a good writer. But I write, and write, and write. I work hard, listen, and learn. And I have been blessed with wonderful teachers, fellow writers, and great advice.
The idea of writing a YA novel overwhelmed me. The longest piece of writing I had done was 1,200 words. But Vic showed up and was determined to tell her story. A sassy young girl, dressed in goth, creating illegal graffiti, showed up in my imagination and I didn’t know what to do with her. In school, I was the “goodie-two-shoes,” the pleaser, the one who did what she was asked, when she was asked; Vic Markham intimidated me.
I did the only thing I could think of…I signed up for a workshop at the Writers’ Federation of Nova Scotia. It was a course in writing YA with James Leck. I loved the workshop and the way Jamie used movie clips and pictures to help guide us. I was able to visualize separate scenes and now needed a way to string them together.
I applied for a mentorship through the Canadian Society of Children’s Authors, Illustrators, and Performers with the creator-in-residence, Jacqueline Guest. I was accepted and she spent five months helping me work through the first ten pages. Jacqueline’s love of Vic and her encouragement carried me forward, but 40,000 words was still daunting.
I bought a book on outlining so that I could break my story down into smaller, manageable pieces. I read and read all of the YA I could get my hands on. Members of my writing group, Clare, Judy, and Carol, read many versions and were very supportive.
Once again, I came to a point where I needed outside help. I sent my manuscript to Marianne Ward, freelance editor, for an evaluation. Her feedback was invaluable. I had managed to get enough of the story on paper so she could ask the right questions and help me flesh out the details. She too, was enthusiastic.
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