JULIA: how you have my number?
555-8920: stole it
JULIA: whats wrong?
555-8920: wat u think?
JULIA: she break up with you?
555-8920: no
JULIA: then what?
555-8920: i need 2 break up w u
What is he talking about? I look up from my phone. He’s facing the wall again. I wish he wouldn’t; I need to see his face. Expressions don’t come across in texts, though I suppose I can guess.
JULIA:
we are not together.
555-8920: no shit
“So, what the fuck?” I stomp my foot again, and gesture sharply. He turns and scowls before going back to his phone.
555-8920: dont play stupid u know she doesnt want us to talk.
JULIA: so? dont talk to me then.
555-8920: but wat if i want to talk 2 u
I don’t want to blush, but it creeps over my cheeks anyway. Donovan notices and smiles, that stupid perfect smile, and I try my best not to melt away. I’m cold as ice, I don’t care about him or the magnets or his perfect arm hairs.
JULIA: u want to talk break up with her.
555-8920: well thats no fun.
Gross. I brush past him to get to my locker. Get me out of here. I have bigger things to worry about. Jordyn’s love life and Donovan’s gross games do not register on the list. Donovan places a hand on my shoulder and turns me around to face him.
“I can’t,” he signs slowly. “I like you. And I know you like me.”
“Not anymore.”
Everyone in my dreams has telepathy. It’s rare for anyone to sign or talk. We’re all psychically linked. But tonight, there’s no one to connect with. Someone must have poured sand in my boots because my feet are heavy; they drag along the pavement. Every step I take is more labored than the last. I have to go faster than this. Why are my shoes making me so slow?
I use my arms to lift my legs, step after step, pound after pound. I’m not getting any closer. I have to go faster than this. I should take the boots off. But I won’t. I need them.
STOMP. STOMP. STOMP. The ground shakes. I look up. The water tower looms over my head, water dripping and spraying from the rivets. I need to go, I need to run. Why can’t I run? I look down at my yellow shoes. Just take them off, Julia!
My feet start to fuse with the asphalt. Everything gets hot. Too hot. I can feel the water spraying my neck, soaking my hair. Where is everyone? Someone help me! I can’t stay here. The heat rises up through my feet, past my ankles, burns my calves. It’s unbearable. The supports start to buckle and shake.
“Fine!” I yell up to the tower. I have to take off my boots, but as soon as I touch the laces, everything flashes white. It’s unbearable. I can’t do it, I can’t move, I can’t take them off. I’m on fire. I’m drowning. I’m burning. I need help. Someone…
STOMP. STOMP. STOMP.
STOMP. STOMP. STOMP.
STOMP. STOMP. STOMP.
—
My bed shakes me awake.
Christmas comes and goes, and the few days after fly by. YP and I finally set a date: December 31, 11:59 p.m. Tonight we tag the water tower. My parents are going to their annual Deaf karaoke New Year’s extravaganza, and with any luck, the cops will be overwhelmed with all sorts of non-graffiti-related shenanigans.
The basement is cold and I don’t have to meet YP for at least an hour. I plug in my space heater and settle into my armchair. I flip open the Katz sketchbook and draw the signs for the words queen and win, even though I haven’t actually won yet. I try to think of a few more words but they don’t come. My pencil’s ready, but my arm isn’t. Maybe I don’t want to draw more. Maybe, right now, nothing is better than something.
I miss being invisible and impossible to understand. Everyone is onto me, getting into my business. Donovan, Katz, Casey. Even Banksy signing at me. Family? Really? You don’t know me. No one actually knows me. Except YP. She’s allowed to stick around. Everyone else is a poser.
She’s been texting me all day. Not saying anything important, but obviously very enthusiastic. I don’t know why I’m not. Mee gave me some paint rollers for Christmas, and wants to know why she can’t see the plans I’ve been working very hard on down in my lair. I don’t know what to say to her anymore. Every word I sign is a lie, and it’s exhausting.
—
The clock counts down to go time, and I throw in the towel with this whole sketching thing. It’s obviously not coming to me tonight. This can’t be what Katz wanted. He was probably trying to be playful, encouraging even. It’s not like he made my art worse, not like he actually defaced it. What we make is bigger than both of us. But he took it too far. Expected too much of me. I wish I could talk to him.
I wear my Warhol flowers T-shirt underneath the coveralls YP gave me. My red beanie calls to me from the floor, but no municipal worker would ever wear one. I opt for one of Ma’s baseball caps. We have a full-length mirror by the front door. Ma insisted on it: she likes to do a last look before heading out. My last look is solid. I really do look the part. Except for the whole sixteen-year-old-girl thing. And the striped socks thing.
Everything’s ready. I go to put on my boots and—my boots. My breath catches in my throat, and I’m hit with this feeling. Not anger or disgust. Not fear, not nerves. Doom.
The doom hangs heavy in the front hall and keeps my eyes fixed on my boots, sitting on the bottom stair. The boots Mee gave me. Even after the expulsion, after all her disappointment, she never quit. She gave me a wall. Who does that? And what do I do to thank her? Lie. Over and over. The doom is suffocating me. The doom helps me decide. I can’t do it. Not tonight. Not to Mee.
I leave my boots, bag, all my supplies, and head out to meet YP.
I park near Dairy Barn and start walking toward the water tower. She’ll understand, right? She’s the only person who does. YP has to understand. I can’t do it. We can do something else. We don’t have to respond.
I keep chanting it over and over in my head. She’ll understand, right? She’s the only person who does. I pass the whale. She’ll understand, right? She’s the only person who does. I pass the school. She’ll understand, right? She’s the only person who does. Walk through the overpass. She’ll understand, right? She’s the only person—
Her arms wrap around me and squeeze so tightly I might pass out from air loss. She pulls back, hands on my shoulders, and smiles. I don’t want to break her heart. But I’m sure she will understand. She’s the only person who does.
—
YP takes my hand and leads me under the tower. I look up and imagine it buckling, crashing down on top of us both. Doom. We make it to the ladder and she offers her hands for a boost. This is the only time I’ve seen her look like a cheerleader since that day she decided to talk to me for the first time.
“Come on! We can’t waste any time!” She bounces her hands, fingers interlocked forming a step up to the ladder overhead, demanding I place my foot there.
“Wait a minute. Please.”
“Hey, you OKOK?”
“No, I’m not.” I slink down to the ground and she kneels beside me.
“Hey,” she waves. “It’s scary-looking, but I know you can do it.”
“How?” I twist my fists together.
“Are you kidding? You shouldn’t————a pep talk! Look——-—-——-you’ve done so far. This is your life, your art! Remember?” She brings her thumbs together.
“But this?!” I point up above us. “It’s too much.” She should recognize that. I didn’t come here to argue with her. I didn’t think I would have to.
“Not for you.”
“Yes, for me! I’ll do something else. Somewhere else. Another time. I just can’t.” My skin feels tight and itchy, it’s not just the cold. I need her to be okay with leaving. What happened to Little Miss Rule Follower?
“Take a deep breath, okay? You can’t quit.”
“Why not? You quit Cheer.”
<
br /> “I never gave a shit about Cheer. This isn’t about me.” Her forehead crinkles as she curses. She looks furious. She shouldn’t be mad at me; she should be mad at my rival writer. She’s supposed to be on my side.
“I know! It’s about me. How am I supposed to do this? What’s next? The Empire State Building?” Her anger is contagious. I wrinkle my forehead to match hers.
“You’re signing too fast!” she says as I steamroll ahead.
“Try to understand, it’s only going to escalate until someone gets caught. I can’t have it be me! Please—”
“Stop saying can’t. You can!” she signs.
“How? How can I get up there, do this? All the pressure is on me! Not you! Back off, okay?”
“Back off?”
“I mean—”
“Me help you! I know how to get it done!”
“How? How can you possibly know that?”
“Because I did it.”
“You?!” I yell, stabbing my finger at her. “The whole time?” YP stands still and exhales. She nods.
“Of all the idiot people in the whole fucking world, you did this to me?” It doesn’t matter if she can’t understand what I’m saying. My fear and anxiety twist into a deep dark rage. I can’t believe it’s happening again. Another knife lodged into my back, right next to the one Jordyn left.
“I didn’t know it was you.” YP arches her eyebrows, pleading for me to believe her.
“Bullshit. Maybe that first time, yeah. Sure. But you can’t say that for the others. I told you! I told you it was me!”
“Too fast!” she signs again, tearing up.
“How could you do this to me?” I ask again.
“I didn’t want a war. I thought the art looked great together. They fit together.” She twists the knife.
“You think I’m talking about the stupid graffiti? Are you seriously as dumb as you look? You lied to me. Over and over. To my face.”
“What sign this?” YP asks and repeats the sign for liar.
“L I A R. Liar, liar, liar. Every day since I met you has been one big L I E.”
“Not true!”
“Oh, really? How many times did we talk about who the other tagger was? How many times could you have just come out with it?”
“I not want you to hate me!” she signs through pitiful tears. I don’t feel one speck of guilt over them.
“How can I hate you when I don’t even know you? Who the fuck are you?”
“You do know me! You know me better better better,” she signs. “Don’t be like this.”
“Don’t act like you care all of a sudden,” I tell her. YP stiffens, her expression shifts from grief to bitterness.
“I care! I dropped out of art class last quarter so you could have my spot.” She stands there, arms crossed, proud of herself. I’m disgusted. It takes me a second to respond to this newest low. I had her so wrong. Not only does she disrespect my art, my friendship, she pities me. I won’t have it.
“How. Dare. You.”
“What?!”
“Poor deaf girl can’t get into art class! I know, I’ll be the better person and help her out and take a knee so she can go use her magical deaf art powers.” I use my voice, make her listen to how stupid she must sound when she talks. “Like…um…like blind people and music.”
“I did it ’cause you’re my friend.” Of course YP starts sobbing. For once I don’t feel bad for her. She brought this on herself.
“You’re not my friend. Never were.”
—
She knows better than to follow me right now. At least I hope she does. She was right about one thing. I do hate her. Hate, hate, hate her. I flick my middle fingers out from my thumbs again and again. Hate hate hate hate.
This whole time, patronizing me with her fake ignorance. Oh, wow, graffiti, street art, so cool. Signing that stupid-ass oath. Of course she knew who Banksy was, of course she suggested wheatpaste. She told me about the underpass tag—what, moments after she tagged it? She wasn’t afraid of my reaction—she was playing me. Hate hate hate hate hate. I break into a run past Finley.
It wasn’t Mr. Katz. He just really likes my art, that’s all. Maybe he didn’t even know it was me. I never gave him that sketchbook, I got so wrapped up in all this. Maybe I should give it to him after all. UGH. None of this matters right now, Julia. I head toward Lee, fists balled up, knuckles white.
This. Is. What. You. Get! I slam my fists onto the steering wheel over and over. What you get when you give a fuck about anything. I’m sobbing so hard I expect puddles of tears to rise up to my ankles. I should have known better, especially after Jordyn. How long has it been since she fucked me over, a semester? I should have learned my lesson, not gone confiding in some lame, cheery-cheeked cheerleader. Snot starts dripping from my nose, and I do my best to sniff it back up. Crying’s disgusting. I’m a mess. Who cries over graffiti, anyway? My neck is cold and wet; I wipe away what I can with my sleeves. I want to drive home but I’m too upset. If I get pulled over and have to open the car door, a wall of tears will flood out like in those drunk-driving ads. And on New Year’s Eve I doubt the cops will believe it’s tears.
Fuck it. Fuck them all. I get out of the car. A boiling, snotting, dripping mess, I head to the Little League field.
—
There it is, the big whale and bones. The sight of it makes me want to scream again. This never would have happened if Casey didn’t try to force me into friendships. I don’t do friends, I don’t do friendly. I don’t play nice, because I get played. That bitch.
The whale glares at me, taunting me. Showing off. I trudge through the snow on the field, my feet freezing in my old, worn-out sneakers. Fuck footprints. I don’t give a shit anymore. Come and find me. I’m responsible. With each step, my nostrils burn from anger mixed with the icy air.
The whole time. She knew the whole time, every conversation laced with lies. What did she think was going to happen? High fives? Hugs? Was she ever going to tell me? Oh, my God, what if she never said anything?
The paint pen is in my hand before my brain realizes it’s there. My arm starts writing before I even know what I want to write. You can write a lot faster when you don’t care how it turns out—I’m back on the road in under thirty seconds, paint dripping and drying in the darkness.
Lee obediently waits for me, alone in the parking lot. Good. I’m finally ready to get as far away from here as I can. A car drives past, headlights sweeping across the pedestrian-crossing sign. Something in my memory sparks. The scoreboard wasn’t the first time! That day, when we walked past drinking iced tea. The skeleton on my tag, the X-ray of the crossing man. I knew then that war was brewing. She pulled me away without saying a word.
Donovan tastes like Mountain Dew and sweat. It’s gross, but good: I don’t want to enjoy it. Not too much, anyway. He moves his hands up my shirt, and I hit my head on the roof of his car.
“Your hands are freezing,” I mime, and slide his hands under my ass for warmth. I can feel him laugh through the kisses. I knock off his visor and toss it into the backseat before I run my fingers through his blue-black hair. He tilts his head back and I kiss his neck. He’s moaning; I feel his throat buzzing.
His car is a dump. I can count at least six soft-drink cups from where I’m sitting. Not to mention all the grease-stained bags, some clearly containing half-eaten no. 3s. It’s more than a turn-off. I grind into his lap; he holds on to my hips and slips his salty-sweet tongue back into my mouth.
I close my eyes and try to imagine that it’s months ago. That Jordyn never went out with him. That she let me have him after she got me expelled. That he approached me first. Back when I was crushing hard, when Donovan could do no wrong. Why couldn’t he have given me the magnets then? Why did he only start liking me when he was already attached? I thought I could have been the exception. What a fool I was. What a fool he is.
I lift up my shirt and let my hair fall down over my shoulders. His eyes light up and he gr
eedily reaches for my breasts, arm hairs all smooth and perfect. I kiss him again and he closes his eyes. Good. I keep one hand on his chest while I use the other to wiggle my phone out of my back pocket. While he’s busy kissing my neck, I hold the phone out behind him just high enough to fit us both in the frame.
—
“Thanks,” I sign to him before reaching for my shirt.
“Wait, don’t go. Not yet.” He hangs on to my hips, his eyes search my face and my body. He’s hoping for more.
“Sorry,” I sign, getting out of the car. “Got what I needed.”
“What?” He looks so stupid sitting there in the passenger seat. All worked up, no idea what’s about to happen. I’d pity him if it weren’t his own damn fault.
“I might be a liar,” I sign with one hand, drafting a text with the other. “But at least I’m not a cheater.”
Message sent.
The snow is melting; traffic lights reflect in the road on the way back to Finley, Red Bull nestled between my thighs. It’s like my first day all over again. I won’t fuck it up this time, though, that’s for sure. Late last night I considered getting myself expelled again, but where would I go? Getting expelled again would destroy Mee. So, fresh start at Finley it is.
Bundled up, hands tucked under her armpits, Casey waits for me at the entrance to the school. Crap. I forgot to ask for a new terp. Maybe I can talk her into quitting. And by “talk her into” I mean “torture her into,” obviously.
“Julia!” she signs, and waves. I keep walking. “How was your break? Did you do—” I stop her hands.
“Are you interpreting for anyone right now?” I ask.
“Um…no.”
“Then you don’t need to be talking to me.” I blow past her toward my locker. Why do the slow fade when you can do the torch-and-burn? My locker springs open and I hang my coat up. My breath catches. I only notice it when I go to shut the door. She was here.
You're Welcome, Universe Page 14