I spend the rest of class avoiding the spike zone and generally trying to be out of the way. My nose is still throbbing—one more hit like that and I’m sure it’ll break. What’s his problem? Up until now, KFS has escaped my wrath entirely. I kind of forgot he existed, to be honest. I suppose it’s possible he’s truly a psycho and wants to screw with me because he can. I wouldn’t put it past him.
YP must have gotten dressed fast, because there’s no sign of her when the bell rings. Good. I get changed in peace, take my time, and drag my yellow boots to ESL. I assume Casey is already there and waiting, no more hallway walk-and-talks. Nice to know at least she’s catching on. I pass the art room and Katz’s red flannel catches my eye through the window. He looks so serious, talking to YP, who stares at the floor and picks at her nails. I try to read her lips but they’re in profile and obscured by her hair. Mr. Katz must have felt me watching, because he looks up and frowns. I book it down the hall.
—
What a weird day. It’ll be over soon. Everyone will stare and scowl and frown for now. But soon they’ll stop caring, just like me, and I can go back to life under the radar. The ESL teacher gave me a sheet to evaluate where I’m at. Essay-type questions, so Casey is looking bored. The first question is about my influences. I know I can’t write about Banksy or Swampy or Miss Van. Not with Katz talking about street art down the hall and my paint still drying on the underpass. What do they want to hear? I’ll write about Mee and Ma. That should count for something.
Who are the most influential people in your life? How have they contributed to your life?
I think my moms are the most influential people in my life right now. They are good role model because even when they don’t get along they still love together. They had to overcome a lot because one, they are Deaf, and two they are together.
While I’m writing, the teacher stands next to my desk and looks over my shoulder. Casey stands by, hands at the ready. The teacher addresses her.
“Can you tell her to stop? I’m going to help her.”
Casey tells me to stop, then explains that Teach can talk directly to me. I’m not sure he gets it.
“So”—he takes out a red pen from his pocket and starts marking up my unfinished answer—“this isn’t too bad. Here.”
I think my moms Mom are is the most influential people person
“Hey!” I wave for him to stop. “I have two moms.”
“Oh. Uh. Really?” He raises his bushy eyebrows at Casey.
“Really,” we both sign/say at the same time. Casey smiles at me. I’m a stone wall. The bell rings and Mr. T practically shouts at me. There’s no way I could understand his distorted mouth shapes without Casey interpreting.
“Sorry about that! Take the paper home with you, bring it back next class. O-kay?!”
Shout all you want, Mister. I ain’t gonna hear you.
—
This has to stop.
The parking lot is full of kids getting in their cars, leaving. All the little fishies swimming home for the night. How in the ever-loving world did YP pull this off during school hours? I noticed it before I even stepped off the sidewalk. I’m stuck pacing back and forth from the curb to the flagpole, hoping each time the heart will be gone. It never is.
Of course. I pick at one of the edges of the heart: wheatpaste. I was so oblivious. She was dropping hints left and right. She should have told me. I can’t relent now. I expected this from nearly everyone else in my life. But not her. She needs to understand that. I look down at the heart. Doesn’t she get it? She broke mine.
—
Everything’s playing out pretty well. Casey stopped bugging me; Jordyn and Donovan kissed and made up—both of them too bored or lazy to move on to someone new. I thought Jordyn would have stuck up for herself, but they deserve each other. At least they’ve stopped talking to me. I’m about 90 percent transparent, 5 percent visible to my parents, and for some reason, Katz is holding on to that last 5 percent.
I see him watching me watch everyone at lunch. I still sit outside every day, but now I face the windows, so I know when to head back to class. It’s not that cold anymore. Either that or I’m growing thicker skin. I like watching everyone eat, mill around the cafeteria, through the glass. All the fish hanging out in the whale’s guts. Throwing a party, oblivious that they were swallowed whole.
YP dumps her tray into the trash. I try not to notice it’s full of food. I try to forget this is the fourth day in a row. Her tags have stopped. No more hearts, no more quotes. Nothing. Weak. If she really loved graff so much, she would be out there. She wouldn’t let me stop her.
My tags are everywhere. Dripping red marks on the slide at the park, on the backs of stop signs. Some days it feels like I’m running out of places for it. It hasn’t been easy. I avoid driving anywhere near my tags. I don’t want people putting two and two together. I don’t need to look at them anymore.
The fish stir in the whale’s guts. Throwing away trash, hiking up their bags, and heading off to class. YP and Katz go to the art wing together. She’s stopped checking over her shoulder for me when she leaves for class. She’s stopped looking at me altogether.
Good.
“Why haven’t you started yet? You told me you would start in February, and it’s already March,” Mee says. She takes her spot on the edge of my bed.
“I don’t know what to paint,” I tell her, and for once, it’s the truth. I know the wall is there, free, legal, and all mine. But I can’t bring myself to plan it out. It’s too much work. Scrawling my new tag over every surface in sight is easier.
“No sketches? Nothing?” She looks around my room for any relevant scrap of art.
“Nope.” I hang my head. I’ve disappointed her. Again.
“Ma said you had some out on the floor?”
“For something else.”
“Something…illegal?”
“No! She already asked me that.”
“I don’t understand, Julia. Is it only fun if you’re not allowed? Why shouldn’t my wall count?” She swallows hard, and braces for my response. When Mee is worried, she takes deep breaths through her mouth. She’s asked me to do the same thing when I’m upset. It tricks your brain into calming down. I’ve never gotten it to work for me.
“It’s not like that.”
“You aren’t yourself lately.”
“I’m always like this.”
“Not true. Moody? Sure. Angry? Sometimes. But you don’t smile anymore. You’re a dark cloud.”
“I’m fine.” I’m so beaten down, telling her would just make it too real.
“Come and paint the wall, it will cheer you up.”
“I told you. I’m fine.” Mee wants to keep pushing the issue, but enough one-word answers force her to give in. I hate upsetting her, but I am always like this. I flop facedown on my bed. My nose collides with the mattress and I wince, the pain from the ball zings back into my sinuses. I let myself wallow for five more minutes. Life handed me a shitty year, and I want to roll over and sleep out the rest of it. But it won’t help. Maybe I should paint Mee’s wall; at the very least it would make her happy. And I can show YP just how fine I am without her.
I open my laptop. Maybe I’ll find some inspiration online. My Hushmail has a bunch of junk I need to clear out. The forums spam my inbox a bunch, and I haven’t been active on them in a long time. I log in and read. It’s too risky to post on the thread I find.
SIBERxREBIS: wtf is up wit ths toy taggin evrywher? ne of u seen ths?
GNOMES: thaats fukked up. that first piece was tits. fuk toys earn ur stripes on stikies or somethin god.
T.HUB: ive seen that shit!
KORE: You’ve seen it? Who did it?
SIBERxREBIS: Kore gtfo we all kno ur a cop.
KORE: That is not true.
T.HUB: cop
GNOMES: cop
KEZTECK: cop
SOPROOAKS: cop
Fuck and double fuck. I’ve never been called out onli
ne before. Never posted pictures for this exact reason. Every now and then some cop gets onto the forums and tries to squeeze info out of toys. I am not a toy. These punks don’t know who I am. They look up to Neckface, but diss my new stuff? We’re not any different.
I read over the comments a few more times. They liked it. Well, they liked it before my latest addition. It’s better now. They don’t know what they’re talking about. I don’t regret it. Not at all, so stop asking.
Everything’s been painted over. The scoreboard, the underpass. It’s all gone. Most of the little tags I’ve thrown up from Greenlawn to Queens have been covered or worn away. Craft paint doesn’t really hold up to the elements. My mops are still there in my coat pocket, refilled and ready, but I haven’t found a decent spot since reading the forums.
“Hey! Pay attention!” Donovan shoves me and jabs a finger at my timer before pulling the fries out of the oil himself. “Clock out before you burn the place down.” His promotion is going to his head. I don’t stay to argue, though—I’d love to get out of here early.
My phone buzzes after I get changed.
MEE: Will you be home for dinner?
Of course it’s Mee, she’s the only person who texts me now. My phone has become this weird paperweight in my pocket, my personal mom-communication device. I should toss it. Be the only teen on earth without a phone. I let her know I ate as I get into my car.
Lee’s too obvious. She’s probably attracting way too much attention. The cops are stupid, but they aren’t blind. I should have painted her back to solid when I first saw them snooping around the tunnel instead of tempting fate. Let’s go, Lee, time for a trip to the hardware store. You’re getting a makeover.
Buying spray paint might be off-limits, but I don’t need it for what I’m doing. Lee is ancient. I love her, but her paint job doesn’t need to be glamorous. I put some rollers—I’m saving the gifted ones from Mee for her wall—and a tray in my orange shopping basket and head for the paint aisle.
I’m trying to decide whether to paint Lee white or black when I see her. Quickly, I take two steps back and pretend to look at light-switch plates. I don’t think she saw me. I peer around the corner, leaning far enough to see YP put a spray can in her own orange basket.
How does she plan on buying that? She’s only two months older than me, and I know her birthday isn’t until June. We had this whole birthday thing planned. Whatever. I watch her pick out two, three, four more cans before she’s done. What a haul. I follow far behind her to the checkout counter.
Oh, look at these power-drill things, so reasonably priced. Just checking out tools over here, nothing to see. I’m certainly not stalking anyone. YP swoops her hair over one shoulder and saunters up to the cashier. He looks really happy to see her.
She puts her basket on the counter and leans over it, giggling, pushing her boobs together. The checkout guy checks out more than her paint. He turns red as she giggles again and bites her lower lip. I know this game. I used to play it with Mail Boy at Kingston. No, we aren’t alike. We’re nothing alike.
He doesn’t ask to see her ID, doesn’t even hesitate ringing her up. Puts the cans into a paper bag, and she’s out of the sliding glass doors with a wave and a wink. A lady in an orange smock taps me on my shoulder.
“Can I help you——?” She gestures to the power tools.
“I’m good,” I say out loud, and head back to the paints. I choose two big cans of dark gray enamel paint and use the self-checkout.
—
Everyone’s asleep by the time I get home. The gate to our driveway is closed. I hop out of the car, leaving her running while I open the little chain-link fence.
We don’t have any outdoor lights on the side of our house, but there’s a street lamp that provides me with enough light to see what I’m doing. I’d rather paint her now, no one walking by, no one asking questions.
I pry open the first can with one of my keys. I forgot to buy paint stirrers, so I mix up the paint with a pencil before pouring some into a tray. The roller sops up some paint and I squeeze out the excess. Can’t let it drip all over the driveway. Ma would kill me.
The paint rolls on in a thin coat; I’ll probably have to go over her twice. I start with the trunk. I thought YP quit writing. I haven’t seen anything around that looks like her work. There have been a few new tags popping up around school, but none of them are good enough to be hers. Where has she been painting?
I wrap around to the right side of the car, letting the roller do the work, rolling paint in W shapes so it doesn’t streak too much. Maybe she’s been planning this the whole time. I know what she’s capable of, so I can’t imagine what she’d pull off with months of downtime to plan. She did buy a lot of paint.
I roll back around over the trunk and to the left side of the car. She can do whatever she wants. She can go paint a huge piece and this time I’ll tag over it. Then we’ll be even. Except for all the lies. Can’t forget that. I climb up on the hood to reach the roof. I keep climbing and take a break on the top of my car.
There aren’t any stars here. When I go out writing in Greenlawn, they’re always up. But not in Queens. The lights on Citi Tower and in Manhattan were my stars. Now, they aren’t enough. The sky is a hazy, dark gray color; it’ll be black soon. I dunk the roller into the paint well in the tray and finish up the roof. All that’s left is the hood. I paint right over YP’s heart in three big strokes.
—
Gray was a nice choice. Lee looks nearly invisible sitting in the driveway. Invisible car for an invisible girl. Perfect.
“We were going to pick up some pizza last night,” Mee informs me as she fills a glass with grapefruit juice. “You must have gotten home late.”
“Yeah, sorry. My phone’s acting weird since I dropped it.” It’s sort of true.
“Where were you?” she asks as casually as she can.
“Hardware store. I gave Lee a makeover.”
“You did?!” Mee rushes to the window and pulls open the little half-curtain. “Oh. It’s…”
“Gray.”
“So plain. I thought you might have done something more colorful, I guess.”
“Nothing wrong with gray.” I down my glass of grapefruit juice before grabbing my bag.
“I suppose not.” She looks solemnly over the new paint job from the window. “Do you need some money for supplies? Is that why you haven’t started on my wall? You know I’ll get you whatever you need to start.”
“I don’t need money.”
“What do you need?” she begs. There was a time when I might have taken advantage of this, but I can’t take anything else from her.
“Nothing.”
“I’m not sure I understand.” Mr. T crosses his arms in front of his chest. “I don’t think she needs to be in ESL…more like remedial English.”
“Why not?” Casey asks him for me.
“She knows English! With her hands or something.” He waves his arms around. I don’t know who rolled their eyes first, me or Casey. She turns to me and signs, “Please.”
“Fine.” I give in. “Listen, English is my second language. I speak American Sign Language. It’s not English. It’s not charades, not miming. It’s a language. How did you get to be a language teacher, anyway? I’m not so sure I can learn English from you.” The smirk on Casey’s face grows wider as she interprets.
“Excuse me?” Mr. T backs away.
“I don’t think I need to be here either, honestly. But it’s supposed to be your job to teach me, not to kick me out because you assume I already speak English. Would you throw out Philippe because he already knows English?” Philippe is the only other person in my ESL class. He’s a tiny freshman with a bowl cut and a little shadow of a mustache on his upper lip. It’s so ugly it’s cute.
“Philippe doesn’t know English!” Mr. T’s face starts turning red. Philippe’s eyes dart from my hands to Casey’s to Mr. T’s face. Clueless. “How am I supposed to know you’re learning? Yo
u don’t talk!” Mr. T argues.
“I don’t need to—”
“Yes! In order to speak English, you have to SPEAK!” He must have really shouted. Casey looks stunned, and poor Phil looks scared out of his mind.
“I was saying—” I start in on a new rant, but Casey cuts me off. She stands in front of me; I can’t see her face. Her gestures have nothing to do with sign language, that’s for sure. Phil hooks his finger into his collar and pulls it away from his neck, as if to say, Jeeeeez. We both start cracking up. Both the adults turn back to us with furious faces. Casey tells me to get my belongings. We’re leaving. I leave class first, with a little nod to Philippe. Casey ushers me in front of her before flipping off Mr. T through the window in his door. Her face is still curled into a snarl when she storms away. It’s the most badass thing I’ve ever seen within the walls of a school.
“Where are we going?” I ask her as we hurry away.
“Don’t know yet. Never done that before.” She pulls on her scarf anxiously between sentences.
“Leave a class?”
“Curse someone out.” She pivots back the way we came. “I should apologize.”
“Are you kidding?” I keep pace with her so she can see what I’m saying.
“You’re right.” She swivels back. I think she’s sweating. “He made me so mad! He’s supposed to be a professional.” She starts biting at the cuticle around her thumb.
“I get it.”
“This was a mistake,” she signs with her left hand, still gnawing at her right. “I wasn’t ready for all of…this.” She gestures at me.
“You’re fine, Casey.”
“Um…no, Julia, I’m not.”
“He’s an idiot! You were right!”
You're Welcome, Universe Page 16