Blood Brothers

by Colleen Nelson

  I think of the piece on the building. Of all the pieces I have yet to do. They deserve to be up somewhere. Other writers need to see them. I earned the chance to be known. But I hadn’t thought of what the school would do if I got caught. Kick me out, probably. And what that would do to Dad.

  I stretch out my fingers. They ache, the muscles cramping. My eyes burn from the fumes and my brain feels foggy.

  “Promise me, Jakub. No more.”

  “Okay.” But as the words leave my tongue, they’re hollow. He couldn’t take painting away from me anymore than I could ask him to stop going to church. I have cannons hidden under the back steps of the boarding house, a few in the garage, and more at Lincoln’s. He can take away the ones in the backpack, toss the tips, but he can’t take away graff writing. It’s a part of me; Morf is my other self. We can’t survive without each other.

  Lincoln

  “Just tell him what we practised,” Henry tells me. He leans in close and I can smell the tobacco on his breath. “There are cameras on the walls, so keep your head down.”

  He spits a wad of saliva onto the sidewalk. A dude in a suit dodges the bubbly mess and throws Henry an angry glare.

  Then he gets a good look at my brother.

  I snort at how quick the guy’s expression changes before he hoofs it inside.

  We are outside the downtown mall. Middle of the day, people stream in and out the doors: moms with kids in strollers, white-haired old ladies, dudes looking for a handout, people in suits walking fast and talking on cellphones.

  It’s not a big deal, I keep telling myself, but my feet can’t stay still.

  “What are you waiting for?” Henry asks. He takes a drag on a smoke and exhales out the side of his mouth. “Get going.”

  Inside the mall, palm trees grow out of planters and stretch up to the glass roof. I tuck my hands into my pockets and walk to the food court.

  It might be nerves, but the smell of fast food makes me want to puke. Henry told me what the guys look like. I scan the tables till I find them: two Asian guys. They each have a fountain drink in front of them, but no food.

  A security guard is standing right beside their table. He has a round belly hanging over his belt and a walkie-talkie on his shoulder. He watches the crowd. A couple guys my age are laughing real loud and shouting at each other, and he’s staring at them. I tuck myself against the wall. The Asian guys have their heads bent low over their phones. They won’t wait, Henry told me. If I don’t show up on time, they’ll bail. My feet start tapping again. I can’t talk to them with the guard watching.

  I check my phone, and when I look up, the guard’s moved away, telling a mom she can’t change her kid’s diaper on the table. I walk quickly to the guys and slide into a chair.

  “Hey.” I swallow hard. My heart beats fast. I’m like one of those TV infomercials, telling people about the product. It’s up to the Asians to make the order. If they want to take a look at anything, they’ll go to the chop shop. My job is just to list the parts. And not get caught. It’s the “not get caught” part that’s scary. The mall is crawling with undercover cops trying to bust drug deals and all the other shit that goes on here.

  One nods, but keeps his eyes on his phone. His thumbs move real fast, flying over the the screen. The other one takes a loud sip of his drink and stares at me.

  I start talking, telling them what we have. I’m worried I’ll forget something. Henry said I couldn’t write things down in case I got caught. I wish Koob was here. He’s better at remembering stuff than I am.

  “How much?” one of them asks me when I tell them we have a Mercedes dash.

  I shrug. “You gotta ask my brother,” I say, just like Henry told me. His face stays blank, and I get nervous he’s gonna walk away. I hold my breath.

  He takes another long sip of his drink and stares at me. I want to blink so bad, but I keep my gaze even. My eyeballs start twitching. Finally, he nods and stands up. The other guy follows. I take out my phone and text Henry: on their way. They know to go to the mall entrance. Someone else will lead them to the chop shop.

  I slide down low in the plastic chair and breathe, relieved I didn’t screw it up.

  Across the food court, a girl with a flash of purple hair and a hoodie with angel wings on the back walks to the escalator. I think it’s Roxy, but can’t be sure. I’ve been watching for her at the clubhouse, hoping she’ll come back. I stretch my neck to follow her as she rides to the second level. “Roxy,” I want to shout, but she’ll never hear me. And Henry said I wasn’t supposed to attract attention. I get up and go to the escalator. Maybe I can catch her on the second floor. The poster her sister gave me is still in my pocket. Roxy should know she’s missing.

  There are too many people in front of me to weave through them, so I’m stuck waiting to get to the top. When I do, she’s gone. Disappeared. Missing, again.

  My phone rings. I fumble in my pocket for it. “Where are you?”

  “Upstairs.”

  “Get back to the food court,” Henry barks. “You got another customer. He’s sitting by the frozen yoghurt place. White hat. Link? You hear me?” His voice echoes from far away.

  I take one more look. But there’s no angel-wing hoodie.

  No girl with a fairy on her foot.

  Jakub

  I lied to Dad when I told him I was done with graffiti. It doesn’t work that way. Dad doesn’t understand what it feels like to be up on the buildings with the night wrapping around me like a blanket. The noise and buzz of normal life clears when I hold a can of spray paint in my hands.

  Part of me wishes I could stop. I don’t want to disobey Dad and I don’t want to risk getting kicked out of St. Bart’s, but the thrill of throwing up a new piece, of seeing Morf splashed across a wall, makes it impossible not to.

  And with the first day of school looming, the jacket hung up on its hanger in the closet, I need to do a piece. Pushing Dad’s disapproval out of my head, I flip through the pages of my black book.

  How many pieces have I done before? Hundreds, counting all the tags. Twenty, counting all the really good shit, the stuff I’m proud of. How many times have I been caught? Zero. What are the chances that tonight, the last night, would be the one?

  Link’s waiting on the corner with a backpack and more cannons. I don’t know what Dad did with the ones he took. Probably tossed them. Thinking about all that wasted Rusto makes me shake my head.

  I left the apartment with only my black book. I couldn’t risk Dad catching me with anything else. I made him a promise, which I intended to keep. On weekdays. Once school started.

  We don’t say anything when we meet on the corner. Just a nod of greeting and a secret smile. I don’t know what he’s been up to all day, and don’t want to know. Link’s bandana sticks out of his back pants pocket. His cap, as always, is pulled low and hides his eyes. The days are starting to get shorter. At ten o’clock, there is only a hint of dusk left in the sky. Lincoln’s scar is hidden by the darkness, the blindness of the night smoothing out the mottled skin.

  The streetlights bathe the sidewalk in milky light. A few kids are outside playing, running after a yappy little dog that darts away when they get close.

  “We’re here,” I say. A row of dumpsters lines the alley. One is under a fire escape. We can hop up, climb to the top of the building, and then cross the roof to the heaven spot, visible from Main Street and the bridge that crosses the river. Another piece ran for a while but got buffed last year. No one had thrown a piece up here since then.

  Link pushes his hat to the back of his head and cranes his neck to find the top of the building. “Looks a lot taller from down here.”

  “Don’t be a pussy,” I say to him. He hates the tall ones. He’d rather rip off a piece under the bridge or on an alley wall. But those don’t get seen. It’s spots like this one, looming above the city, that leave a ma
rk and get a graff writer noticed.

  The dumpsters stink like rotten fruit. Holding my breath, I grab the side and haul myself up. A cloud of fruit flies swarms me when I make it to the lid. Lincoln tosses the backpack up to me. The thin, metal rungs of the fire escape are rusted and flakes of paint come off on my hands. I feel the stairs vibrate as Link starts climbing behind me.

  I take a deep breath when I get to the top of the building. From up here, the bottomless sky looks like it could swallow us up, engulf us in its darkness. Walking to the edge, I peer over. A couple of people are on the sidewalk below, but the sounds of the city, the cars and sirens, die away. From the top of the building, the rest of the world doesn’t exist; it’s just me and Lincoln, and we own the city.

  An emergency light by the door coats the rooftop and the wall we’re painting with an orangey haze, highlighting splotches of bird shit at our feet. Lincoln’s shadow joins mine on the roof. He sits down and puts his forehead on his knees like he’s dizzy.

  “You okay, man?” I ask, unzipping the backpack and pulling out the cannons.

  His head bobs, and a minute later, he stands up and moves further away from the edge.

  Colour from the old piece has bled through the white paint used to cover it. I open my sketchbook to a new drawing. Once we start, we have to move fast. The point of picking such a visible spot is that everyone will see the work when it’s done, but there’s also a greater chance of getting caught. Without speaking, Lincoln and I move around, getting things ready. I’ll do the outline in black and then we’ll fill it in together.

  I stretch my fingers, clench and unclench my fists, and pick up a can of paint. The second it starts to hiss, a spray of black hits the wall, solidifying into something. It coats the rough stucco, giving presence to something ignored before.

  We stand back when it’s done. My shoulder aches from holding the cans and my fingertip is numb. Lincoln pulls his bandana down from his nose. His cap is on backward and his eyes roam the work, taking it in. I like watching his expression; it’s a mirror of what other people will look like tomorrow when they see it for the first time. Lincoln shakes his head like he can’t believe we created this. A smile creeps onto his face.

  A giant fist holding a can of spray paint smashes buildings flat. They explode into fireworks of colour. It looks good. Even in the dim glow of the security light, the colours are vivid and it takes up a big part of the building. Our tags, Morf and Skar, are scrawled in the corner.

  “Ready?” I ask Lincoln. He’s packing up our gear. I stuff my black book into the back of my pants. From the corner of my eye, I see a red and blue orb spinning. “Shit!” I grab Lincoln’s sleeve and yank him back from the fire escape. We lie flat on the roof, gravel digging into our cheeks.

  Blood rushes to my head. I’ve blown it. My chance at St. Bart’s: over. I slap the roof, curling my fingers into fists in silent anguish. What the hell have I done?

  “Come down, now, you little shit, before we come up and get you.” The voice is amplified by the megaphone.

  “They think there’s just one,” I whisper.

  “What do we do?” Lincoln asks, his voice raspy.

  I don’t know. My mind goes blank. As long as I stay up here, nothing is screwed up. Yet. I’m still going to St. Bart’s, my dad is still sleeping at home, and Link is safe beside me. But the second we stand up, it’s all over.

  “We know you’re up there!” the voice bellows from below. “Better for you if you come down on your own.”

  “Koob?” Lincoln looks at me, waiting for a plan.

  “I can’t get busted —” I whisper, but before I can say anything else, Link is on his feet, his hands above his head.

  “Link! What are you doing?”

  “Good choice,” says the cop voice.

  As he steps over the ledge onto the fire escape, the cannons in the pack knocking together, he looks at me. I stare at him bug-eyed, but he just shrugs.

  “I got nothing to lose,” he mumbles, and disappears.

  My heart beats hard in my chest. I hear him land on the dumpster and then jump to the ground. “Give me the backpack,” one cop says, quieter now without the megaphone, but I can still hear him, his voice echoing against the brick of the alley. “You want to tell us what you’re doing up there, with five cans of spray paint?”

  Link doesn’t say anything. The cop shakes the cans. The metal balls rock inside, clanking against the sides and echoing against the brick walls. “Not much left in here,” he points out.

  I have to listen while they berate him. Ask if he thinks defacing property is a joke. Tell him it’s vandalism and a punishable offence. That he needs to clean up his act, or face the consequences. Lincoln’s silence a reproachful roar.

  “Come on, we’ll take you home.”

  “No point,” Lincoln says. “No one there cares.”

  The cop snorts. “Yeah, well, it’s what we do.”

  I wait a long time after the car doors slam to peek over the ledge. The alley is dark and empty. Forcing my body to climb down the fire escape, I can’t get down fast enough, scared the cops will come back. Tucked against my spine, my black book digs into my tailbone. Gratitude for what Link did makes my legs rubbery, but I walk home quickly, desperate to crawl into bed and disappear from the streets.

  Lincoln

  Friggin’ cops.

  Anger spills out my feet. They tap against the floor. It pisses off the cop. He glares at me. The vinyl seat squeaks every time he moves. I don’t friggin’ care. What’s he going to do? Arrest me for foot tapping?

  “You high?” he asks. He has a pretty-boy face, like he picked being a cop because he knew he’d look good in the uniform. Big eyes, long nose, a face girls probably like.

  I don’t answer, just stare out the window till the car stops.

  “This it?” The cop turns around. A naked light bulb shines over the front door of my house.

  I nod, keep my lips pressed tight together. First time I ever got brought home by the cops. Mom’ll be pissed. I hear her brag about me still being in school and not giving her any trouble.

  Dustin’s light is on upstairs. I get a choking feeling in my throat. I don’t want my little brother to see me like this, dragged home by the cops. I know how it goes, seen it with Henry when I was a kid. The sound of them hammering on the door and Mom or Dad shuffling down the stairs, half asleep, the deep voices explaining what happened while Dustin listens, confused because he thinks I’m one of the good guys.

  The pretty-boy cop opens the door for me. The air smells smoky, like someone had a backyard bonfire. Or maybe a dumpster is on fire. The cop holds my arm. His grip is strong, but I shirk out of it. “You’re hurting me,” I say real loud.

  I don’t think about running until Pretty-boy loosens his hold on my arm to slam the car door shut. It’s like a starting pistol firing Go!

  I twist away from him and take off. My feet slap against the concrete. I push my chest out, barrelling into the night. Are they behind me? I can’t turn around to check; it’ll slow me down. I hear one yell, their voices tug me back. The car starts, but I’m free. A one-way street. By the time they get in the car and turn it around, I’ll be hiding down some back lane.

  I run. So hard and so fast, I think my lungs will explode out of my chest.

  A laugh bursts from my mouth as I round a corner. I’m almost home free.

  Ducking into another alley, I lean against a brick building, catching my breath. A smile stretches across my face for a second. Then my throat tightens because I realize they know where I live. They could be waiting for me to go back.

  I kick at a can in the alley. It bounces and spins against the pavement. The metal is loud against the brick and cement, and I wish I hadn’t kicked it.

  I hear sounds of traffic from the street at the end of the alley. The cops might be looking for me, trolli
ng up and down the streets. They probably knocked on the door, woke up Mom and Dad, and told them what happened. I made it worse by running. But cops have better things to do than search for a kid.

  I can’t hide in back alleys for the rest of my life, so I stuff my hat in my back pocket and poke my head out around the corner. Headlights blind me, but I stick to the sides of buildings, walking slow like I’m in no rush.

  My head clears as I get farther away from my house. My feet move on their own, guiding me to the one place I know will take me in.

  Henry’s nostrils flare, like a bull in a cartoon. But it isn’t funny. He’s pissed at me. His lips curl into a sneer. “The address is on my parole file. The cops’ll figure out we’re brothers.” He shakes his head, fuming. “Why did you tell them the truth if you were just gonna run away?”

  I keep my head down, staring at my shoes. I want to tell him I’ve never been busted before. Wasn’t thinking straight. I didn’t know I was gonna run until all of a sudden I was. But I’m too scared by the look on his face to say anything.

  Henry swipes at the air and stomps a boot on the floor. Other guys cleared out of the room when he started yelling at me.

  “Sorry,” I mumble.

  “What happened, anyway?”

  I start to fidget. My fingers slimy with nerves. I can’t tell him what really happened or he’ll want to beat the crap out of Koob. “Got caught tagging.”

  He stomps his foot again, swears, and sits down in a chair. After a while, he calms down. “At least they didn’t process you. Your prints aren’t on file or nothing.” He picks at his teeth, thinking. “You need a place to crash.” It isn’t a question, but I nod anyway. “Take a room upstairs,” he tells me and I breathe out a sigh of relief.