You're Welcome, Universe

by Whitney Gardner

  I want to laugh, not because YP’s cheered me up or brought me around, but because she doesn’t know how pitiful the gesture is. Give it up. The pink letters catch the light as I start to swing the door closed. I can’t believe she thinks this is the way to handle the situation: breaking into my locker and tagging over my work yet again. Showing me up.

  My new schedule commands me to head over to the math hall for intermediate algebra. Math’s not too bad; numbers I can handle. The rules are the same no matter what language you speak. And bonus, Casey hates math. Lots of fingerspelling, lots of numbers. Not a lot of fun for someone who became an interpreter because sign language is so beautiful. Few people could make solving for x beautiful in any language. Definitely not Casey.

  “You didn’t see it yet, did you?” Casey asks, taking her spot next to the chalkboard.

  “See what?” I reply with the stink-eye instead of words.

  “Your English class,” she signs without making eye contact. The schedule peeks out from the pages of my textbook. I slip it out, and lo and behold, I’ve been moved to ESL. Shit. I would say I tried, but I didn’t, really. Here’s the part where I would normally fly off the handle, rage against the English machine and all that. But after everything that’s happened, who cares?

  —

  The first half of the day I spend zoning, fuming, working, and figuring out what the hell I’m going to do next. I point to a soft pretzel in the lunch line and fill a little paper cup with mustard. It’s still bitter and cold outside, but I haven’t run into her yet, and I don’t plan on it. The concrete table in the courtyard is my new lunch hangout. I sit with my back to the windows. They can see me, but as far as I’m concerned, I’m eating my snack in Siberia. Alone.

  I want to go out, I want to bomb every wall, every sign, every lamppost. I don’t care if she was here first. She doesn’t get to win this war. She won’t be able to walk a single block without a reminder of her betrayal, her crimes against whatever friendship I thought we had. Friendship. Friendshit.

  I know it’s Casey tapping my shoulder; I don’t have to turn around to know it’s her, but I oblige. Her nose is already running from the cold. Toughen up.

  “Come inside.” She motions to the door.

  “Are you interpreting for someone right—”

  “Stop it with that; look, I know ESL sounds bad, but—” We take turns cutting each other off.

  “I don’t care about ESL.”

  “Oh, then why…” Casey looks me over, searching for the right words.

  “Unless you’re out here, interpreting for a teacher or something, I don’t see how it matters to you.”

  “Of course it matters—”

  “Let me put it this way: it’s none of your business. I’ll see you in class.” I turn back to my pretzel and she takes the more-than-obvious hint to leave. I wish I was a smoker. I feel stupid sitting outside with nothing to do but look at my busted-ass phone. Jordyn has texted, but I haven’t replied yet. Not much to say to her anymore. Soon she’ll wise up and leave me alone and I’ll finally be invisible at work, too. No way Donovan’s ever looking at me again. They deserve each other.

  My butt starts feeling numb from the cold concrete bench. I look over my shoulder and notice the cafeteria has emptied. Damn it! Now would have been more helpful to butt in, Casey. I have Mr. Katz next, and I’m sure she wants to be there even more than I do.

  —

  The halls are clear as I rush to the art wing. This is bad—how late am I? It’s the first day of the new quarter, so hopefully I’m not the only one. I pick up the pace. The door to Room 105 is closed. Weird. He never closes the door during class. I turn the knob and the whole class stares as I creep through the doorway.

  “Sorrysorrysorry,” I sign. Mr. Katz looks less than pleased at my late arrival. He points to an empty chair. Casey leans against the display wall and glares at me. It’s okay. I made it. Everyone gets to be late on the first day of new schedules, right?

  “I think it sucks,” good ole Black Shirt says. He’s back for more art this quarter. I survey the room. Black Shirt, Freckles, Pigtails, and YP. Wait. What? Our eyes meet and I immediately look away.

  “What sucks about it?” Mr. Katz asks him.

  “Why ruin a good thing? It was cool before, now it’s all messed up,” Casey interprets for Black Shirt.

  “Is it any different than what the first artist did?” Katz continues his line of questioning.

  “Duh.” Are they talking about what I think they’re talking about? Black Shirt continues. “It’s like what she said.” He points at me and I don’t appreciate the second round of stares from the whole room. “What they did didn’t add anything to the art. They had crappy intentions.”

  Ugh, using my own words against me like that. Gross.

  “How do you know?” I sign at him. He looks at me when he answers this time.

  “C’mon, did you see it? It’s totally ruined.” He actually looks at me when he speaks.

  “Who says it’s ruined? Who are you to judge?”

  “You’re joking, right? I can’t tell with your, like, lady over there. You can’t say it’s better now than it was before.”

  “I think it was better when it was just a whale. Everything after that ruined it.” I can feel YP staring at me from the other side of the room. My eyes want to look, too, but my willpower holds out. Casey starts interpreting again.

  “You’re wrong.” I can guess who said that. I keep my eyes fixed on Casey.

  “What makes you say that?” Katz asks.

  “It was good,” Casey continues interpreting. “The whale. And the skeleton? That was good, too. But together? They’re awesome. Brought up to another level.”

  “Who are you to say?!” I turn and sign to YP. “Why are we talking about this at all? It’s art class!”

  “It’s street art,” Pants emphasizes.

  “It’s not meant for some stupid roundtable discussion about what counts as art, or what’s good and what’s bad. Let it be what it is!”

  “And what’s that, Julia?” Mr. Katz tries to call me back down to earth with his question, but I’m too far gone.

  “It’s over. I’m done with this class.” I grab my bag and slam the door behind me on my way out.

  I don’t care about still lifes and draperies, so what do I need advanced art class for? Nothing. I have everything I need right here. The basement is covered in papers and pencil shavings, left over from what was once the Big Plan. I sit cross-legged in my armchair and look over the sketch wasteland. When I snap to, Ma is staring at the floor alongside me. I don’t shove the papers away. It’s too late, she’s already seen it all. At this point, I hardly care. This piece is never going up anywhere. It’ll only ever live on paper. Nothing to see here.

  “You’re home?!”

  “Obviously,” she says, eyes fixed on the floor.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I should be asking you that.” She sits on the arm of the chair next to me.

  “Why?”

  “I heard you quit art class.”

  “Casey needs to stop calling you, it’s not fair—”

  “Why would you quit art class?” She stares off into the room, not waiting for my answer. “I kept asking myself that. You really wanted to be there. You needed it after—after everything.” I know better than to interrupt her. “So, why would you quit? Either something happened, or…” She sighs and motions to the floor. “You’re back at it again.”

  “This? No, this isn’t that.” It was, but it’s destined for the trash now.

  “Don’t lie to me, Julia.” Ma picks up one of the loose pages. “If you quit class, what’s all this for?”

  “I’m allowed to draw on paper, aren’t I?”

  “Don’t get defensive. Can’t you tell me why you dropped out?” She releases the paper and it floats back to the ground. I want to tell her it’s none of her business, that once again she’s overreacting to information fed to her by
an overreaching terp. I can’t tell her about YP and me; she’ll tell me to deal with it, stay in class, keep my commitment, don’t let teenage drama keep me from my education, blah blah blah.

  “Julia, I know these aren’t for Mee’s store wall.” She indicates the piles of papers and pens. I’ve never wanted to be alone so badly in my life. I change tactics.

  “Didn’t Casey tell you? I got moved to ESL. No time for art if I want to pass.”

  “Really?” Ma digs her fists into her hips. This is her thinking-with-purpose stance. She stares off at some distant spot on the wall. “It’s not something else?” She looks at the papers again, and the corners of her mouth turn down. I can tell she doesn’t know if she should believe me, but I don’t feel panicked. I feel empty. It’s not like I’ll ever use the plans, nothing here is worth the interrogation.

  “I honestly thought that you—”

  “Really. I’ll take art next year or something. Whatever.”

  “Are you sure? Because I’m not so sure you need ESL. I could call the school and—”

  “Ma! I’m fine, everything is fine, okay?” I flick the K hand shape at her. I thought I was done getting the third degree.

  “Okay, Miss Attitude. Dinner soon.”

  Once I’m sure she isn’t coming back, I pull out the very last of what was once my stash. After I got caught at Kingston, I got rid of nearly everything I had at home and opted for the new routine, the shell game with my black bag in different lockers. There’s only one small box left. You wouldn’t know it’s contraband by the looks of it, which is why I kept it around.

  I’m sure if Mee or Ma ever found the box, they’d assume it’s just a bunch of empty glue pens. They don’t scream graffiti material, not when they’re empty. I can feel Ma walking around above me in the kitchen. I didn’t tag the water tower, but I didn’t exactly stop. I haven’t stopped lying, I’ve stopped caring. Am I any better than YP? Maybe everyone on earth is a liar.

  I’m not the cops, I’m not her dad. I’m her friend. I was her friend. That is what makes it unforgivable. She had no reason at all to lie to me, and I have every reason in the world to lie to my moms. I dump the contents of the box into my backpack and gather the papers off the floor.

  Screw planning, screw big thoughtful pieces. I don’t need planning. I don’t need respect. I need revenge.

  The bass blasts so loud in my car, the seats vibrate with every beat. I haven’t turned on the radio in a year, maybe more. Tonight I need the distraction. THM THM THM, the steering wheel hums under my fingers. I don’t want to think my way out of this one. I turn the knob up a little more.

  Plans are for pussies. For toys who are afraid of getting caught. I don’t need a disguise or an alibi. All I need is some paint and a wall. Everything else is a distraction from the real deal.

  I roll through Dairy Barn. The cashier, frowning at the music, hands me a huge Styrofoam cup of iced tea.

  “It’s late!————down!” he yells, turning an imaginary knob. I wave and pull away into the parking lot across the street. I don’t want that guy to think I’m lowering the volume for him, but I have markers to fill, so I shut off my car and the bass thumping ceases. The best thing about mops is you can fill them with craft-store acrylics. The watery stuff that grammies use for stenciling birdies onto flowerpots and bathroom walls works best.

  No one gives you a second look when you buy the paint for this stuff. Even so, I gave up on mops a while back; they drip more and don’t mix well. Generally, they’re harder to control and don’t make anything nearly as beautiful or perfect as spray. But I’m not looking for perfection anymore. Perfect is the enemy of getting it done. Right now.

  First, I unscrew the caps and squeeze the paint from their tubes into the pens. A little bit of the Martha Stewart’s Pursed Red Lips color dribbles onto the passenger seat. I try to rub it off with my sleeve but that only scrubs it deeper into the fibers. And now it’s on my shirt. Whatever. I put the mops in my coat pockets and lock up Lee.

  I bet I could walk from Dairy Barn to the underpass backward with my eyes closed at this point. How many times have I made this trip? I have to start switching it up, I can’t keep tagging in the same places. Gotta expand, move on.

  How did she do it? How did YP have me fooled for so long? Not just her innocent act—the logistics of the whole situation baffle me. She knew where I bombed, when I bombed. She retaliated so swiftly, but her art looked like it took weeks to plan. It doesn’t seem possible that she could live all those lives at once.

  I’m supposed to be the one you’d never suspect. I should be able to write at lightning speed, with no pauses for planning. No time for second guesses. How did a bouncy blond babe beat me at my own game? My fingers wrap around one of the mops as I walk under the overpass, each one filled with a different shade of gory red.

  YP can suck it. Jordyn can suck it. Donovan, Casey, they can suck it. The red paint drips down the wall as I work over the mural. Huh. Two hearts, she put two hearts in the skeleton. She wasn’t toying with me enough. Had to leave a little hint in there. I mop on a deep-burnt-red broken heart over one of the originals. I leave the other one untouched.

  I use the brightest red for crossing over the eyes and let every drip run its course to the ground. Does she really expect me to forgive her? I scrawl the last few letters up and run the mop across the length of the wall as I leave.

  “I don’t understand why, though!” Jordyn signs, during our break.

  “Does it matter?” I need to quit this job. I’m exhausted by all the drama. I thought what I did would finally put an end to it. That they would both hate me so much, they would finally, finally leave me alone.

  “Yes! It does!” She blocks me from leaving the room.

  “You were worried he would mess around, so…”

  “No, I wasn’t!”

  “Why did you ask me to stay away from him?” That shuts her up for a second. “What did you see in Donovan, anyway?” I don’t know what I saw in him, either. The only thing I see now is that they are perfect for each other. Users. People who love you when you’re new and shiny or when they need you for help, but the minute you need them—they vanish. They should get married, and divorced, and married again.

  “I liked him!”

  “You like everyone! I liked him, and you got bored and decided to swoop in.”

  “That’s not—” Jordyn stops herself, she looks up to the ceiling and exhales. I can’t tell if she finally understands me, or if she’s plotting some new way to get my sympathy.

  “Look, you wanted to know if he was a cheater, and now you know. I did you a favor.”

  “Jesus, Julia. You’re so fucked up. I’m tired of pretending to be friends with you.” She blows past me to the kitchen.

  “So don’t,” I sign to the closed door.

  I’m fucked up because people like her stab me in the back all the time. If everyone left me alone, I’d have nothing to be fucked up over. I straighten my black polyester collar and catch my reflection in the mirror on the wall.

  I look wrecked. Like I need five hundred hours of sleep to make up for the past two weeks. My eyes are sunken in and darker than usual. I’d feel crappy about it except they remind me of someone’s. They have that same tired look as his. That day when I pulled him off the fence, he looked ragged, but like a pro. I stand a little taller, thinking he and I might have more in common than I thought.

  I flip off Donovan every chance I get. Granted, it’s only in my head so I don’t get canned, but I like to think he can feel it in the air. I’m sure I’m getting the same treatment from him, what with the death stares and clenched fists. Without Jordyn or Donovan to worry about, I’m on top of my game tonight. I got fries lined up for days. Evening rush? Bring it on.

  “Your shift’s over.” The manager taps me on the shoulder and motions for me to leave. “Nice work tonight.”

  Wasn’t expecting that. I raise my head high and smile on my way into the locker room. I do
n’t need anyone to tell me I’ve done a good job, but I can’t say I mind.

  I’m all changed out of my grease-coated uniform when Donovan bursts into the room.

  “You think you’re funny?”

  “No.” I duck my head and click my lock shut.

  “You realize—-——fucked over the only two————-liked you———place.”

  “You fucked yourself over,” I sign.

  “I can’t understand you,——talk, damn it!”

  “Ha!” I cough out for him to hear. I grab one of the mops still in my coat pocket and go up to his locker.

  “You done being pissed yet?” YP signs to me, this time in the locker room. She’s in three of my classes and has the same lunch period. I swear, it would be so hard to avoid her if I was a hearie. Thankfully…I turn my back and it’s like she’s not even there.

  “——on, give it up———-.” She moves in front of me. I close my eyes as I pass her on my way out. No, I’m not giving up that easily. The fact that what she did to me still doesn’t strike her as a big deal only strengthens my resolve. I’m not the kind to kiss and make up; she should know at least that about me.

  The gym is set up for indoor volleyball. I’m relieved to find that I’m not placed on a team with YP. Forty minutes of hitting a ball back and forth over a net and I’m out of here. I get to zone out in ESL, then eat lunch in my igloo. The feeling of relief doesn’t last long. I feel it slip away as the ball rushes toward my face.

  Stars flash and everything goes black. I feel a pop in the bridge of my nose that sends pins and needles shooting across my cheeks, as if the ball was slammed into the funny bone of my face. It’s a shooting pain followed by numbness.

  Am I bleeding? My hand rushes up to my nose and comes back dry. I’m fine, but damn, it hurt enough to be bleeding. I look up and Kyle Fucking Stokers glares at me. A chill runs over my arms. I signal that I’m okay to Ms. Ricker and the game continues. I’d expect KFS to high-five a bro, giggle over hitting the retarded girl in the face again. This was different. He wasn’t joking, he wanted to hurt me.