You're Welcome, Universe

by Whitney Gardner

  “You were friends with her?” YP signs the word friends a few times with a scrunched-up forehead.

  “I thought so.”

  “I don’t know if—-—-friends with you,” she says, assuming. I didn’t lecture YP about her phony friends.

  “But she was.” I nod and sign. “She was my best friend.” I think back to when Jordyn would sleep over and we would spend all night watching Bollywood movies, with Ma and Mee dancing around the living room. Jordyn would play along, but then make fun of me for days afterwards. I know Bollywood movies are silly, but they’re mine. A part of me.

  And then it sinks in: Is that what Jordyn is? Just a big faker? YP straightens up with wide eyes. She makes her hands into fists, and uses them to sign “shoes,” then points to the door. We look around for a place to hide. I know all the closets are packed; there’s no way we would fit in any of them.

  “Quick!” She hops up on the still-life table and offers me her hand. I take it by instinct and she pulls me up to meet her. YP lifts up one of the hanging curtains and wraps it around us both. It reaches all the way down to the table, where it cascades onto the floor.

  She looks over her shoulder, listening for the door to open. She holds a finger up to her lips, forgetting I’m not really one to make a peep. I wonder if the sound of my heart pounding in my rib cage is as loud to her as it is to me. Her eyes shift from the door to the other side of the room and back, her neck craned over her shoulder, for one of the longest minutes of my life.

  “C L E A R?” I ask. Signing has its advantages.

  “I think,” she exhales, and starts laughing. We scramble out of the room as fast as we can.

  In the hall, YP checks the time on her phone before rushing off to her AP calculus class. I should be walking to my next class with her, but I lag behind. After she turns the corner, I go back inside the art room.

  I can’t just steal the paint, right? I’ve never stolen supplies in my life. It goes against everything I’m about. My graffiti is more about the art, less about the vandalism. Stealing to make it happen? That’s not art.

  But no one is using it! It’s sitting there in a cabinet untouched and unloved. How would we even use spray paint in class? Indoors? Maybe it was donated or something and Katz doesn’t know what to do with it. If I don’t take it, it’s only going to keep collecting dust. And whoever is ruining my work gets to win our war by default.

  I take three cans.

  “You can’t cut class and not tell me.” Casey is furious.

  “I was helping YP! It’s not like there wasn’t a reason.” Some things are more important than proper sentence structure. Why don’t teachers get that? Ninety percent of the time, fine, I’m there in class. Sometimes shit hits the fan, though, and we’re supposed to ignore it?

  “You’re not understanding me—” she goes on. Damn, Casey, you’re not even that old. Don’t you remember what this was like? I tell her exactly what I think she wants to hear, but I can’t help but roll my eyes as I do it.

  “No, I understand. I have to go to class and try to be better and be brave, and if I don’t start getting better at English I’m gonna make Deafies look stupid and—”

  “What? No! I know your friend was upset. I saw her at lunch, too, and if you had asked me, I would have let you.”

  What?

  “You make yourself look worse when I show up to your class and you don’t.”

  Is this real life?

  “Get it?” Her pointer finger flicks up at the ceiling. I’m so stunned I can barely nod.

  “I told them you weren’t feeling well, so let’s go to the nurse and make it look right.”

  Casey, who are you?

  “Liar,” Donovan signs. “You very liar.” He grins. Jordyn must be teaching him more signs. I don’t know why she would bother.

  “I’ve never lied in my whole life,” I lie as fast as I can, and when he doesn’t reply I puff my chest out and roll my eyes.

  “You paint. You paint! I know.” He signs some more then speaks. “Jordyn——me all——-it.” If I wasn’t sweating after my extra-long shift, I was now.

  “I quit all that,” I sign, dusting imaginary crumbs off my palms. “Finished with it.”

  My shoulders ache under my black bag. It feels like it’s full of bricks, not paint cans.

  “Liar,” he signs again. He zips up his hoodie. The zipper looks like a spine, with a rib cage printed on either side of it.

  “I gotta go.” I point to the door and wave, fingers clenched around the straps of my bag. I can’t get out to my car fast enough.

  What’s Jordyn running her mouth for? She knows the kind of trouble I could get into. As far as she knows, I’ve moved on from all that, anyway. So why would she go and talk to him about it?

  The wipers clear the snow off my windshield. There’s something stuck to one. Trash? It’s yellow, like the burger wrappers inside Mickey D’s. I stop the wipers and struggle, reaching out of the window, to grab it.

  I wait until I’m home to inspect the note again. The snow has blurred the letters, but there it is, clear as day. This shouldn’t be possible. I know it’s my move, thank you very much. What I don’t know is how the hell you know who I am. I shove the note in my pocket and start pacing on the sidewalk in front of our house. My footprints in the snow diagram the steps of some long-lost stress-induced dance called the Panic.

  I feel sick, violated. I’m going to pass out; I need to lie down. This isn’t just a major diss, it’s a threat. It’s scary. I can feel the sweat beading on my forehead. I’m hot, so damn hot. I lie on our little patch of lawn and let the snow fall on my face.

  This isn’t okay. This isn’t happening. Out in the open, up on a wall, anonymous is one thing. This, though? On my car, my car. I’m aware of every flake that touches down and melts on my face. They know who I am. They know I’m Julia; they know I’m HERE.

  I run through that night again and again as the snow collects in my hair and around my ears. I parked at least a mile away from the field that night. After I dumped my hoodie and walked to my car, I checked over and over again to see if anyone was following me. I took random streets on the way back, not the quick or easy route.

  Who is it? Who could possibly be this offended by my work? Be so up on their game that they notice my graff right after it goes up. I decide to head to my basement command center and work through the fear. I have one last stencil to finish.

  —

  I slice through the poster board with a little more care this time. Ma and Mee are on one of their date nights, so I don’t have to worry about them sneaking up on me. I can work and think. Every now and then my hand finds its way into my pocket and I wrap my fingers around the slowly disintegrating note. YOUR MOVE. Oh, I’m sorry, am I not moving this along fast enough for you?

  The little cuts in the board shine like stars when I hold it up to the light to check my progress. I’ve been playing it so safe, and still I get caught. I guess I should be thankful it’s a rival and not the cops.

  How did Donovan know I had paint that day?

  He saw my hoodie.

  Is that enough?

  He knows my car.

  He has that hoodie. That skeleton hoodie!

  Jordyn told him I used to spray.

  What exactly does that prove?

  Why did he bring it up tonight?

  Where did he go on his break?

  Does he have Post-its in his locker?

  How does he know I’m a liar?

  No. No way. I refuse to believe it. He’s not clever enough—he’s all looks. This sort of work takes brains and talent. He’s with Jordyn, so what’s he messing with me for? Obsess much? I thought I was the obsessed one.

  Since when are you an artist, Donovan? You never said anything before. I guess you never said anything, period. Do you like me or something? Is that what this is about? Trying to play the same game as me? What else did Jordyn tell you about me? Did she whisper it in your stupid ear and you tho
ught, OH, HEY, THAT’S COOL, LET ME GO AND MESS WITH HER ART, TOO, SINCE I CAN ONLY MESS WITH HER AT WORK. Goddamn it.

  I roll up my stencils and venture out into the cold again. My move.

  I’m on edge, and I don’t like it. I should be buzzing, I should be driving down to the overpass high on sweet guerrilla endorphins. I’m ready. I have everything in place, my plan committed to memory, but I’m on edge.

  How does he know I’m a liar?

  The wind blasts through the tunnel, stinging my face. I thought to wear more layers this time, but I’m still freezing. I decide to put my piece up near the far exit of the overpass. The one-way street will give me some time to dash if I have to. I’ve learned some new tricks since my last bomb.

  I slide the first stencil out of my bag’s straps. Each stencil is cut from black poster board: nice dark camouflage, no giant white beacon in headlights. I use Sticky Tack to get it up on the wall. I do the tack at home so each stencil already has it in place. I peel the roll apart and stick it right on up. It always ruins the stencils but I don’t keep them after finishing anyway. Rip ’em and ditch ’em.

  Black can goes first. I shake it up and spray across the poster board. I have to get paint in every cut. The black on black on black makes it harder to see what I’m doing, and I waste paint going over the same spots more than I need to. The wall looks like a paint-eater anyway, so I keep the spray flowing. Doesn’t matter if I run out, as long as it looks perfect.

  The tunnel brightens up. Car’s coming. I grab my bag, leave the stencil on the wall, and haul ass through the nearest exit. I toss my bag, and it lands behind a bush on the hill outside of the tunnel. I leap down in the frozen dirt, next to the bag.

  No time to waste. On the ground, I prepare for Stencil Number Two, uncap the blue and holster the black. I lie back, and my breath forms little clouds above my face. Cars are going by, I can feel it but I can’t tell if they’re on the overpass or under it.

  The sky is blanketed with heavy gray clouds. Every now and then a star is bright enough to peek through. Maybe it’ll snow again soon, but I hope not tonight. On the other hand, if it snows, maybe people will stay home and I’ll have enough time to finish. Have I waited long enough? My neck is freezing down here on the ground. I wait another full minute before I decide to dash back to the tunnel.

  I rip down Stencil Number One. I try my best to get the cutouts on the second board to register in the right place, but it’s okay if they’re slightly off. I think it looks cooler that way sometimes. The Sticky Tack doesn’t hold up too well in the cold, so I have to really press it into the concrete. I have blue ready to go. This time the lighter paint color makes it much easier to see if I’ve sprayed in the right spots. I double-check over both shoulders while I spray. The coast is still clear and I throw up the final stencil, the first two in shreds at my feet.

  The final layer is the magical one for me. It’s what makes the whole thing come alive. The highlights, the special moments, all happen on that last round. My arm and fingers shake. My right hand is frozen into that spray-claw shape so badly I worry that I won’t be able to pry the purple can out of it. Everything aches, even though I haven’t been at it all that long. Stencils don’t care if I’m shaking, so no need to spray in a straight line.

  I rip down the last stencil and ball all three up. I’ll toss them in random trash cans on the way back to Lee. I take my Screaming Silver paint pen out of the front pouch and sign the piece. HERE.

  The still life is down in art class this week. Nothing is set up in the center of the room. Casey is already in the middle of a conversation with Mr. Katz (green flannel today) near the record player. When he sees me take my seat, he holds up a finger and grabs something from inside his tote bag.

  “Here, I made—--copy.” He slides a big used yellow envelope on my desk. I slip out the stack of papers inside and on top is a color printout of the Bob Dylan cover. I flip through the stack: there’s a new page for the lyrics to each song. Katz has drawn little doodles in the margins: fish swimming, horses, hands reaching for things.

  “I thought that—”

  I cut him off with a wave, he doesn’t need to say anything. I put my hands over my chest, one on top of the other, trying to keep in the warm feeling that’s started to radiate there. I don’t want Casey to interpret. I want Mr. Katz to understand me like I understand what he just did for me. It’s hard to look him in the eyes; I felt something in me unlock and I don’t want to share it. But if I want him to understand how grateful I am without words, I have to.

  When our eyes meet, we both must look so worried, so serious, it’s funny. I burst out into a laugh, and I’m relieved when he starts laughing, too.

  “Thank you.” I slide the pages back into the envelope and tuck it away into my bag. This is mine. It’s all for me. Then the guilt worms its way into my chest. Why did I take that paint? I immediately start thinking of ways to repay him. What would be an equivalent gesture? I can’t really make him a mixtape, considering I don’t know all that much about the art of it. Maybe my next piece, something with red, something—

  Black Shirt hands out paper and Sharpies to everyone in the class. Casey takes her position as Mr. Katz starts explaining our next unit.

  “For the next few weeks, we’re going to be talking about street art.” My ears are hot. There’s no way he can know. I glance around the room, scanning faces to see if anyone else is flipping out. No, it’s just me.

  “I wasn’t planning on doing this lesson until the spring, but I was inspired on my drive to school this morning.”

  Gulp. Katz saw the mural. He must have. He can’t know it was me, I’ve been so careful. How many cars drove by when I was painting? It couldn’t have been that many. It’s just a coincidence, at least it inspired him. Stop blushing, you’re only making it worse.

  “Before we start, though, I need you all to promise me that you will practice your work only here in class.”

  “What’s the point, then?” a girl with freckles asks.

  “The point is to learn about a different art form, add more styles to our toolbox. Who knows? Maybe you’ll be hired to paint a mural one day.”

  Aw, what a cute notion. Styles in our toolbox, and getting hired for murals? As if that’s the same thing as real street art. Mr. Katz, I love you, but sometimes you’re so corny.

  “We’re going to start out using our real names for our work here. No nicknames yet. So, first, I would like you to start experimenting with the letter forms of your name. Feel it out. Try not to rely on your pencils and only use the pen. You wouldn’t get to erase in the real world.”

  True, that.

  Tagging with my own name feels wrong. Even on a piece of non-incriminating paper, it feels off. This isn’t how it works. You don’t sit down with a Sharpie and write your name over and over. Well, I guess you sort of do. But definitely not in a room full of other kids all doing the same thing.

  Ugh. My fingers get dappled in Sharpie. Dead giveaway. I’ll have to try and explain this to my parents. I swear, it’s for class probably won’t cut it. Maybe Casey will back me up on this one.

  When I tag, it’s not about slapping my name on a wall. It’s more than that. Right now, though? I’m not jamming out. I’m not going into that amazing, humming, buzzing trance that happens when I’m dreaming up new work. It’s just my name, just paper. The J is ugly and the stupid I looks like another L.

  Mr. Katz comes over and looks at my paper.

  “Hmm. I thought --- ----- be good at this.” Wait. Did he—or am I misreading lips again? How would he know? Some gossiping secretary who knows why I was expelled? Teachers want to act like they’re above rumors and gossip, but I know shit spreads faster in the main office than in the cafeteria. He laughs to himself as he moves on to the girl sitting next to me.

  BOOM! I win. I drive down Spring Road on my way to work. My fingers, still smudged with Sharpie, wrap around the steering wheel. My piece is still burning under the overpass, and, m
ore important, untouched. Now this, this is real street art. Not some Sharpie doodled on poser-printer paper in art class.

  This takes ovaries.

  I wonder if Donovan has seen it yet. Maybe he’s planning his next move, or maybe he thinks I haven’t made a move yet. Whatever. Move made. BOOM!

  I strut into work like a boss. Like a queen. Like a CEO. Like nothin’s gonna bring me down. Check my swag, D. It puts yours to shame. Jordyn is already getting changed when I strut into the back room. I’m glowing and nothing she says is going to kill my buzz.

  “I wanted to talk to you,” she signs. I pull down my visor to avoid looking at her.

  “Doesn’t matter.” My hands swipe back and forth.

  “I think I’m getting serious with Don—”

  “And?” I cut her off.

  “Well, I need you to back off.”

  “Back off what?” I snap. I’m losing my patience with Jordyn and her demands. My conversation with YP replays in my head. Jordyn was a real friend, I didn’t make that up. Right? I was always there for her—all she had to do was text. I remember bringing her chocolate shakes after a particularly dramatic breakup. We ate them with spoons on her fire escape, and she cried and I made jabs at her ex. That’s not fake.

  “Him. I know you like him. And he keeps talking about you.”

  “Why?” Seriously, I want to know. He shouldn’t be talking about me to anyone. Did he tell you about our little war?

  “I don’t know, I don’t really get it.” Real nice, Jordyn. I wouldn’t expect you to get it. “So, would you mind backing off? I’m with him now.”

  “Doesn’t matter, okay? I’m over it, and I’m over you. You lost all your clout when you sold me out.”

  “I had to! They thought it was me!” she signs. Pathetic. She’s never even taken an art class.

  “No, they didn’t. I stood up for you! I painted that wall for you! You were my best friend. What happened?”