“What happened? What is it?————about———art class, or—” When she’s excited, she talks so damn fast. I shake my head, and wave my arms to cut her off.
“You’ll see,” I mime.
We make the turn for Cobblestone Avenue, and the scoreboard comes into view. I pull over. My headlights illuminate my work and the work of my rival. I point. First to the painting, then to myself.
“What?” She looks confused.
“I (spray-paint motion) that.”
“That—that’s yours?” She covers her mouth, although it looks more like her eyes might pop out of her head than her tongue. I nod. She studies the scoreboard, her eyes tracking back and forth and back again. She looks at me timidly. “Is——why—-—- expelled?”
I nod and pull out my phone.
JULIA: I made a huge one on the back of the gym at my old school.
YP: They caught you?
JULIA: Yeah duh.
YP: So you still do it?
JULIA: Obv
She types into her phone but she keeps deleting and starting over. She looks at the whale again before finally sending.
YP: its good. I like the different styles.
I can tell she’s reaching for the compliment. I’m sure she’s never so much as ended up in detention, let alone broken a law. It’s kind of fun to feel like I might be corrupting her.
JULIA: The styles is my problem.
YP: Doesnt look like a problem.
Hah! Yeah freaking right.
JULIA: I not do it.
YP: I thought you said you did do it.
JULIA: I not do the bones part.
YP: Who did
JULIA: Not 100% sure on that one yet.
YP: You dont know???
JULIA: No its like some sort of turf war thing.
YP: War?
JULIA: They did this to my work. Now I need answer back somewhere
YP: So you take turns.
JULIA: And its my turn.
YP: But…
JULIA: ?????
She doesn’t look at me, only at her screen, or the field. She doesn’t seem excited by it. Maybe it’s not her thing, but it’s mine, and for some reason I want her to at least try to understand.
YP: Why does it have to be a war?
The drapes are looking very drapey in Advanced Art Studio. They loom overhead, taunting me with their highlights and shadows. The folds seem to have multiplied, thousands of little wrinkles and creases mock me: “real artists draw drapes.” Today we start color versions of the same still life. Mr. Katz puts on a record at the beginning of class again, but this time he props up the sleeve so the class can see. It doesn’t have the name of the musician on the front.
The cover is a painting, really rough brush strokes—I’m going to guess in oil paint by the way the colors mix up. It’s a man’s face. I’m not sure if it’s the performer or not, but it’s not painted in a very realistic way. Thick gray outlines, a big flat light blue nose.
There’s a debate going on about it. I look over to Casey, but she’s preoccupied with participating in the argument, rather than clueing me in. Katz keeps laughing and smiling at her. From what I can piece together, the guy across from me with the long brown hair and holey black T-shirt has a bad opinion about whatever is playing. A lot of the other kids are chiming in, too.
Casey tells him to get to his artwork…and something about the history of music? Mr. Katz finally steps in and lifts the needle, puts it back down on the same record, and says, “——listen——-next track.”
The drama stops; everyone takes a moment to consider the song change. So much fuss over a song…aren’t we in art class? Shouldn’t you all be drawing? The next song seems to placate the room. Black Shirt closes his eyes, and nods along to the beat.
Mr. Katz comes over to me and kneels down so we’re on the same level. He speaks at the perfect speed for lip-reading. Everything about him radiates a Zenlike calmness. “Did I show you where the paints are?”
I shake my head “no” and follow him over to one of the large wooden cabinets lining the back wall. He swings the door open, revealing an assortment of supplies. A box labeled “Oils,” a box for acrylics. I pull out boxes one by one; dinged-up, dirty tubes fill each to the brim. Some of them must be empty, maybe only one squeeze of pigment left inside. Most are so caked with dry paint, you wouldn’t even know what color you were picking out.
Underneath the paint boxes, there’s a shelf full of pastels and colored pencils, followed by a shelf of watercolors. Dozens of little clear plastic trays stacked up and crammed into place. Under the watercolors there’s one last shelf, and on it is an old plastic milk crate packed full…
Of spray paint.
I grab a tray of watercolors and turn away as fast as I can. I won’t give it a second glance, won’t risk being caught scoping the merchandise. At the sink I pick up a jam jar and fill it with water, take three brushes from the coffee can, unroll some paper towels, and head back to my seat.
Mr. Katz closes the closet. It doesn’t even lock. Casey is standing in my line of sight for both the closet and the still life. I shoo her aside. Don’t even think about it. I’m above stealing. Where else am I going to get it?
I dip my brush into the water, swoosh it around a bit, and dab the excess water on the paper towel. I rub the brush into the red first, getting the pan nice and wet. I’ll start out with light colors since I don’t really know much about watercolor painting. I grabbed the paint without thinking.
Another jam jar gets placed next to mine, and Mr. Katz calls Casey over to interpret.
“Two glasses keep the colors from getting muddy,” he instructs. “One for cleaning your brush, one for adding to washes.” Casey has obviously been practicing her art vocabulary. She doesn’t skip a beat.
“Thanks.” I smile. He moves on to the girl across from me; she’s attempting to thin out acrylic paints with turpentine.
My eyes dart back to the closet again. Stop looking! But it’s like I have X-ray vision and I can see right through the door. The cans sit there, unused. Collecting dust. Begging. I pull my eyes away from the closet and back to the cloth. I can’t steal from the one teacher who’s reached out to me. That’s just bad karma.
I’m sitting cross-legged in my chair. The bottom foot hums with pins and needles—I miss my big armchair. I’ve started by painting general shapes again. Watercolor paint is trickier to work with; you can have too much water and get gloppy textures, or not enough water and end up with scratchy strokes. Not like spray: beautifully opaque, spray performs exactly as you’d expect all on its own. No water or thinners required. With the right caps, you can achieve a lot of range, too. I’m thinking about doing a stencil piece as my next move. Stencils can be stunning. Elevated. Next level.
I realize I’m staring at the paint cans in the closet. Wait. When did I come over here? I don’t even remember getting out of my seat. I grab a few colored pencils from the top shelf and book it like mad back to my spot.
Casey waves: the bell rang. Class is over. Mr. Katz shows me where I can put my work to dry, a big rack next to the record player. I pick up the album and flip it over.
Bob Dylan—Self Portrait.
“It’s a good—” He crosses his arms as he tells me, “I’ll make you a copy.”
I laugh and roll my eyes. Casey taps her foot in the hall. I close the door behind me on my way out. Another door between me and that stash.
Clicking on my paper lamp after school, I decide to figure out the paint later. Gotta plan out the piece first: I’m finally going to tag the underpass. I crouch down next to my armchair and grope around underneath it. I have my B-book Velcroed under there.
If I sketch or plan anything that has to do with graff, I put it in here. Not in my piles of regular sketchbooks, not on flyaway pieces of paper. They all go in here, in my bible, in my little black book. And I have some real work to get to.
So how do I retaliate? This will be my art. I c
onsider doing one lone pear, but I scrap that quick. That’s for Katz. What says ME? What says JULIA? What says HERE? It has to be all those things. It has to be me on that wall.
I flip through some magazines, hoping lightning will strike, but there’s not a cloud in the sky. No one in the pages of Nylon is like me. I’m a fingerprint, an anomaly, a snowflake. Indian, Deaf, girl, two moms. You couldn’t make this shit fit in the pages of those glossy mags. I think about the curtains, the paint, the smell of Room 105. I think about the Zen being that is Katz, and his hypnotic red plaid. And I remember “Julia.”
I crack open my laptop and search for the lyrics to the Beatles tune I was unaware of. I wrote off the Beatles long ago, mostly because they’re all over the map. I can’t figure out what sort of music they play. A bunch of songs are all about holding hands and loving and I love her and does she love me and she loves you, blah blah blah. And then you have songs that are, like, some sort of country song about a bar fight with some raccoon guy, and another song about another guy who goes around bashing people with hammers? One of their songs goes on and on about doing it in the road and that’s it. That’s the whole song.
Someone explain the appeal.
Anyway, I figure if my name’s in a song, maybe I can use it. Might as well see. I find a link and pull up the lyrics. I scroll through the lyrics pretty quickly, and I have to scoff. Seashell eyes? What? For some reason I read them again. And again. And again. The lyrics repeat in my head, and I try to imagine how they would play out loud. The words are too dreamy to be a rock song. I repeat them even slower. I pick up my pencil.
The words don’t leave my head as I draw. My brain is preoccupied with the words and my hand takes over. Am I hypnotized? Line after line, the drawing starts to come together. Three colors. Where’s my X-Acto? Where’s my poster board? The song in my head plays on as I start tracing out the first image.
I know it doesn’t look like much yet, but it will. I cut away all the pencil, making lace out of paper. I love this part just as much as all the rest of it. The methodical, unrushed part. The quiet creation before the spray-paint storm. I have the words memorized. Is this what it’s like to get a song stuck in your head? I start working on the second board when the overhead fluorescent lights flash. I shove everything under my armchair before running over to the stairs. It’s Ma again.
“Everything okay?” She’s checking in, but she doesn’t invade my space. It’s the first time since Kingston she hasn’t just walked downstairs without a heads-up. It’s a relief and I mean it when I tell her, “Perfect.”
YP slams down her lunch tray and a few stray chips fly onto the table. Casey is thrilled to get to interpret our lunchtime conversations. Sometimes she tries to drag other kids into it, but YP is the only one who sticks around.
“What’s wrong?” Casey beats me to asking her. YP ignores Casey and stares at her lunch tray.
“Everything all right?” Casey pushes. I hope Pants comes up with some sort of answer, because Casey could go on like this forever.
“Well, no. Officially lost my chance at Cheer this year.”
“You actually like that stuff?” I pull my hands away from my chest, touching my middle fingers to my thumbs. Casey interprets for us.
“I liked having lots of friends.” She doesn’t make eye contact with either of us. Her eyebrows are hidden under her bangs. I can’t tell if she’s upset or angry. I’d be neither; those girls weren’t her friends, not real ones anyway. What kind of friend texts you insults, abandons you?
“Can’t you at least try out?” Casey urges.
“No.” YP shoots me this look, one I recognize the meaning behind. She doesn’t want to talk about it. I try changing the subject.
“Casey, you know that Beatles song, ‘Julia’?”
“Of course! John Lennon wrote it for his mother.” She cleans her round glasses on her scarf, shining proudly. She loves when I ask her questions. Especially if they involve her opinion on something.
“His mom?” I put my thumb in my chin and my fingers stick up, making the sign for mom. “But it’s a love song!”
“You can love your mom!” Casey objects. YP and I both crack up.
“People don’t write love songs for their moms,” YP chimes in.
“Why not?” Casey asks.
“Weird,” I sign. “It’s weird.”
“Tsk.” Casey puts her glasses back on, rolling her eyes. She makes the sign for bathroom and leaves. She’ll meet up with me next period, no matter how much I wish she would get lost in the halls.
I text YP.
JULIA: Why cant you try out?
YP: Everyone hates me now.
JULIA: For for??
YP: Same reason Kyle dumped me.
JULIA:
Screw them try out anyway.
YP: Why? So I can be humiliated?
JULIA: You care too much
YP takes her tray, untouched, and dumps it in the trash on her way out. I know how she feels. This time I don’t let her get away.
“Hey!” I use my voice to get her to turn around. The hall is empty; my voice is just for her.
“Sorry,” she signs.
“It’s OKOK,” I sign back. “I understand.”
The whites of her eyes are pink again: this must be really important to her. That, or she cries a lot.
“Come on.” I walk in front of her down the hall. After lunch I have English, which I hate with every fiber of my being. And, shit, I’ve been trying. Trying to keep my texts to YP clear and understandable. Not falling back on the old texting habits I had with Jordyn. That’s something I do miss, not having to watch my words when I type. Using whatever grammar I damn well please and not being called stupid or slow. I hate English. Hate. I’d have no problems ditching, but I’m the only junior with a babysitter. Sure, my teacher could find out I cut, but he wouldn’t be able to leave class and search the school like Casey can when I don’t turn up.
YP wipes her nose on her sleeve. I don’t care, I’ll deal with Casey later. This is more important. We turn down the art wing and make it to Room 105. I peek inside the long thin window and the room is empty, exactly like the first time I came here.
I open the door and motion for YP to follow. She looks around the art room and her shoulders drop. She exhales and starts bawling. I consider hugging her, but it feels weird. I never know what to do when someone is crying. Pat her on the head? I stare at the wall. It’s covered in drawings of perfectly rendered cloth; they put my little pear to shame. YP slumps down into a chair next to me.
“I lost everything, all———, I thought——-—-—-be better. I———-I was better.” Her lips are puffy and moist, but I get the gist.
“What happened? For real,” I sign. She seems to understand.
YP covers her eyes so she doesn’t have to look at me when she mouths very deliberately, “I—-sick—-getting better——-gaining weight.”
Oh. She looks over her hands to gauge my reaction. I pull out the seat next to her and join her at the table.
“I was alone. Before. I didn’t——anyone. I—-skinny and suddenly I—-whole entourage.” She sighs, a big breathy exhale from the bottom of her stomach. What good is an entourage if they don’t really know you? If they don’t really see you for who you are?
“So, I didn’t want to, you know, get better. —————was great—-——. And Kyle…” It’s better to let her talk. I don’t think she wants to hear my opinions about Kyle Fucking Stokers, or her fake-ass friends at the moment.
“He made me feel like it didn’t matter. All——work—-—-counting, and pills, and walking, and everything wasn’t important. ——I was more important.”
“You are more important.” Kyle and I actually agree on something.
“I went and got help and he——-text me and—-———————it wasn’t———allowed. I got better, and I came back. And everything was so messed up. ———worse than before. Everything I loved is over.”
The way she hunches over in her chair, the drapes soaring to the ceiling behind her, she looks like she has wings.
“I draw you?” I ask without asking. I pull out my sketchbook and flip to a new page. Moving quickly, I take a box of markers from Mr. Katz’s podium. I wish they were paint pens. We could use the fumes.
We sit in the empty room while I outline her figure. I thought YP was one of those girls who never shut up, the ones who blather on and on just for the sake of talking, who don’t listen to what you’re saying. It’s always about them. Turns out YP likes it quiet, too.
I swivel the book around on the table to face her.
“This, this is, perfect.” She’s getting better at ASL every time she signs. She must be practicing. She’s right, it looks great. I’m working in my real style: fast, loose, markers, colors. It’s all me, and all her. I rip it out and give it to her. YP puts the drawing down in front of her.
“What about you?” she signs.
“What about me?”
“Tell me something. I want to know more about you.” She waits for me to respond, but I don’t know what else to tell her. I told her about my street art, what else is there? “What about boys?” YP asks with a small smile.
“Worst!” I sign with the angriest eyebrows I can muster.
“S P I L L.” Her eyes widen and she leans in.
And I tell her. I tell her about Donovan, which leads to Jordyn, and all her hearie boyfriends that last a month or two at a time. How it never bothered me before, but of course it bothers me now. About how it makes more sense for him to choose Jordyn anyway. I don’t think she can understand half of the words, but she nods in all the right places.
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