“Like you———a brat, too? Sulking———acting——you’re better——everyone else?”
“I didn’t deserve—” I try to explain that he’s partially to blame for my attitude but he cuts me off with a wave. He lifts his hand and slowly and awkwardly spells out:
T
R
U
C
E
He laughs, because my jaw must be scraping the pavement. Who in the whole damn universe taught Kyle Fucking Stokers how to fingerspell?
“Doesn’t——-kid learn——like, kindergarten?” he explains, reading my confused expression.
“Fine. Truce, for now.”
—
I sit in my car, reading and rereading his note. Thinking about YP, friendless in the art wing. What’s so wrong with that? Being alone isn’t so bad. She’s always been so sensitive. I think about her being a cheerleader, surrounded by buzzing girls, boys crushing on her. Dating Kyle, of all people. Of course she quit Cheer. She only wanted the friends, and those friends sucked. I feel a small comfort in knowing I outranked them in her mind.
It’s not fair. Why should I be forced to give in because she’s delicate? She really did lie to me, I’m not making that up. I didn’t ditch her for no reason. I’ve been alone since then and I’ve been—
No. I haven’t been okay. Shit. We’re both messed up.
After today, I think I’ve earned an iced tea. I pass three of my butcHEREd tags on the way to Dairy Barn. No wonder I’ve been avoiding these streets. They look like ass. What was I thinking? I have to go to 5 Pointz. Revenge or no revenge, I need to make up for all this garbage writing.
When I get my phone to type out my order, there’s a text notification on the screen. The attendant is already waving impatiently at me. I flash my order on the screen, pay, and drive on through.
YP: this cant wait til friday, 5ptz NOW. something happened.
I hit every red light on my way to the highway. I flip off each one until it turns green. She must be okay; she couldn’t text if she was hurt. Or caught. Doesn’t matter. I press down on the accelerator. I need to be there, now. I should be driving to work. I consider texting Donovan, telling him I’m sick, but I never want to text him again. Consider this my resignation. Sayonara, Mickey D’s. Find someone else to deep-fry fat sticks. I’m out.
The drive is a blur: suburbs, highway, city. I park as soon as I see a spot. I won’t find one anywhere close, so I lock Lee up, leave everything behind, and run.
There she is, flower print, suit jacket, and all. Blond hair draped over a silver backpack, a Nordstrom shopping bag at her feet. She’s reading the “coming soon” condo announcement again. The building’s been painted since we were here. No murals, nothing but white primer covering every surface, windows included. All the graffiti ghosted underneath the thin layer of white. Fuckers.
“Hey.” She turns and waves sheepishly. She must’ve heard me coming.
“This sucks.” I point up to the building.
“You didn’t see it yet, did you?” she signs with complete confidence. She must have been practicing this whole time.
“No, I haven’t been back. When did they paint it over?”
“Not this!” YP points over her shoulder. “This isn’t why I texted you.”
“What, then?”
She starts chewing at her nails. “I really am sorry, you have to know that,” she explains.
“What you did, it broke my heart,” I tell her.
“I know, mine was broken, too. I didn’t mean—”
“I know.” I cut her off. She looks so defeated. Tired. I really hope she ate lunch. Her shoulders droop forward, her jacket rumples, the sleeves dappled with pink paint. “Hey, is that…his jacket?” I tug at the sleeve.
“Oh,…uh…” She turns red. “Yeah.”
“Ha! It looks good on you!”
“Listen, small or big, choose.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I have two things to show you. Small or big first?”
“Small, I guess. I’m not ready for anything too big.”
YP swings her bag around front and unzips it. I catch a glimpse of school papers and books, but not much else. She pulls out a small flat package, rectangular and wrapped in pink wrapping paper, and hands it to me.
“It was in the coat,” she says as I unwrap the paper. It’s a Moleskine sketchbook—shiny, soft, and black. “I think you should have it.” I flip through the pages. Oh, my God. It’s his. It’s his B-book.
“This is insane! You don’t want it?”
“Well, I look so good in the jacket!” she signs, and twirls around. I can’t help it. I swoop in and wrap my arms around her.
She gives me her death squeeze, but I don’t care. It’s not tight enough. I want us to get out of here. Hop in my car, head to her house, split ten pies and talk about nothing for a month straight. She pulls away too soon and sees that I’m crying.
“I’m sorry, too. Really,” I tell her.
“You don’t have to be.”
“You know that’s not true.” I hug her again, and I can feel her laughing. I pull away and sign, “Thank you.” We flip through the pages some more.
“This dude is magic,” I tell her, and she hugs me again.
“I’m really glad you came. I didn’t feel right stashing it in your locker. I wanted to give it to you.”
“Oh! My locker! What did you want to paint? What happened?”
“That’s the big thing. You ready yet?”
“Yeah, I’m ready.”
This time, YP leads the way around the fence. I can just barely make out the old graffiti beneath the primer. Ghosts of writers past. It’s depressing, and sort of spooky, thinking about how in a few years, no one will even know it was here. A whole gallery of graffiti, gone. When we reach the spot where we rescued the Suit, YP points up to the building, but I’m already looking. It’s unmissable.
He came back.
“Did you…?” I turn to YP, picking my jaw up from the concrete.
“You kidding? I can’t do that!”
“How does he know we…” I spray invisible paint in the air.
“I have, like, literally no idea,” she laughs. (She signs the word like. It’s hysterical.) YP’s hair glows orange in the setting sun. We both hang on the fence, saying nothing, smiling and carefully looking over every detail of his piece. He got us. I don’t know how, but he did.
“Let’s put him in his place.” YP throws the jacket on top of the barbs and climbs up and over as if she’s done it every day of her life. Piece of pie. “Hurry up!” She checks in both directions as I climb over the fence. She tosses me a can of Jet Black and vinyl gloves from her Nordstrom bag and we get to work.
—
YP is smart. No supplies in her backpack, everything in the shopping bag under a thick layer of tissue paper. She pushes a pink dot cap into place on a can of yellow and shakes it up.
“Hey!” I wave and get her attention. “You have M A G N E T S?” I point to the bottom of the can.
“What T O Y sold you on that trick?” she laughs.
“It doesn’t work?”
“Most cans,” she signs, “have G L A S S balls in them.” Face, meet my palm.
Embarrassed, I uncap and walk to the wall. I reach my arm out, but YP stops me. She pulls a paper respirator over my nose and mouth.
“You need. Is important,” she signs, before pulling hers down. Only YP would be worried about fumes when the clock is ticking. Never saw the point of a face mask, still don’t. I hang back and watch her work first.
Her left hand clenches into a fist and relaxes a few times. She’s deciding where to start. I can literally see her Aha! moment in her body language. She rushes the wall and sprays two giant yellow circles over our likenesses’ faces. Oh, my God. I get it.
I grab a stencil cap and hook it onto the collar of the black can. We can’t have our faces up on a wall, a giant picture of us spraying. YP
is smart. I add some smiles. We fall into a rhythm, each taking turns, watching the other, then adding our own touches. Once we’ve been at it for a while, we have to move faster. The politeness ceases and we go for it, moving quickly, trading places, swapping colors. We’re a blur of color, painting until YP hears footsteps and we run like hell.
—
Everything gets put into the Nordstrom bag and tossed into the first Dumpster we pass. She doesn’t save her paint. I want to keep running, but YP’s practically window-shopping.
“You work so C L E A N!” I tell her.
“You work fast!” She snaps her fingers. I see her bike chained to a post near the 7 train entrance.
“You want a home?” I ask as she unlocks the bike. Her face goes white. She swallows hard. “What? What is it?”
“S T A Y C A L M,” she spells quickly before turning around, face to face with two police officers. She smiles at them. I want to run. Everything in my body screams for me to get the fuck out of there. This time, my head knows better than my body. Running would only guarantee I’d get dragged in. I stand shoulder-to-shoulder with YP.
“What—-—-two girls——----- evening?” the bigger of the two cops asks. I can’t make out what YP says. She’s talking fast, grinning wide.
“Is——so?” the lady cop asks me. I slowly point to my ears and shake my head. YP steps in and tells them I’m deaf. The cops exchange a skeptical look.
“It’s true,” YP signs and speaks.
“We—-call————-girls————your description————-—vandalizing———-property.”
“Sorry,” YP signs/speaks. “We’re coming from—”
“Hold—-——hands,” Big Cop demands. YP starts to interpret but Big Cop cuts her off again. “I——, hold out——hands!” He mimes for me and I comply. Fem Cop flips our hands over, inspecting every crease and cuticle. Mine are sweating so much she has to wipe her own hands on her pants when she’s finished. Our hands are clean, but she isn’t satisfied.
“Open your bags,” Fem Cop orders.
“I don’t———-to——search,” YP says, holding her bag.
“Good for you,” Big Cop huffs, and snatches the bag from her. “So———you’re here——-train station,—free—search you.”
Oh, fuck. Is there paint in my bag? Mr. Katz had to have taken it back, right? I hand my bag over to Fem Cop. He wouldn’t have left it in there. I feel a bead of sweat roll down my back. No, he would have. That’s exactly the sort of thing Katz would do. He likes the art, but hated my behavior. Fem Cop unzips the front of my bag. I’m light-headed, I feel like I’m going to pass out. I take a breath, but it feels like I can’t get any air in. Please, Katz, be a hard-ass. Just this once.
Fem Cop pulls out my notebook and busywork from earlier in the day and throws them on the ground. No paint. Katz, I could kiss you. I risk a glance at YP, who looks more annoyed than terrified. Her books and papers are also on the ground at her feet. I have no idea how she’s staying so calm.
“Arms out.” I do as Fem Cop says. YP does the same, but Big Cop takes a step back. Fem Cop runs her hands up my right sleeve and back down again. I’m going to throw up. I don’t know how I’m still standing. I’ve dreamed of running from the cops, fooling them at every turn, with Pum Pum, with Creepy, with Wurstbande. In Buenos Aires, in Australia, in Berlin. But I can’t handle it as she fem-handles my left arm. In this moment I don’t pretend to be tough. I cry. The tears fall. They run and drip off my chin and onto my shirt. Fem Cop notices and takes a step back.
“What’s—-got——-about?” she demands of YP. I’ve never been so scared and confused in my life.
“She doesn’t know what’s going on,” YP signs, and explains, pointing to her ears. I sob. Big Cop laughs. His face is smug, punchable. He motions for Fem Cop to get on with it. She does. And I’m an idiot.
I’m an idiot for blowing up like I did, for tagging like a toy. For telling myself planning is for pussies. For lying to my moms over and over. I’m an idiot and I deserve everything that’s about to happen when Fem Cop pulls out the blood-red mop from my coat pocket.
“What’s this?” Fem Cop holds the mop up in my face. All the color drains from YP’s. She’s so smart, she has all her bases covered. Here I am, the toy with paint in my pocket. I’m sinking us both. I start to explain, but Big Cop tells me to keep my arms at my side.
“Pen and paper,” I say aloud. “I—I—I n-need a pen and paper.”
“Finish first,” Big Cop tells Fem Cop. She hands him the mop marker and pats down my legs before moving on to YP. YP is clean like Greenlawn snow. I’m as dirty as Queens sludge. She never has to apologize to me again. I’m the one who fucked us.
“So, what’s this?” Fem Cop repeats herself.
“Pen and paper,” I remind her. Instead of getting me a pad to write on, she turns to YP. So against the law, but the officer doesn’t seem to care, or know. Fem Cop talks fast, her lips are thin and coated in gloppy gloss. I have no idea what she’s saying. More tears cling to my chin, then drip to the ground. I don’t dare lift my arm to wipe them away.
“You can’t prove—-—that!” YP doesn’t appear to be yelling, but she’s nowhere near as calm as she was before. Big Cop doesn’t care. He opens the back door of his cruiser, and ducks her head inside.
“Pen and paper! Pen and paper! Pen and paper!” I shout over and over. They have to give it to me. It’s the law. I can’t believe I thought cops who cut corners were only in movies and bad TV. Fem Cop ducks me into the seat next to YP. They take our school IDs and leave us in the backseat. We can see them through the windshield, talking into their radios.
“OKOK?” YP signs.
“No!” I shout. I put my face in my hands. So thankful they didn’t bother cuffing us.
“Hey.” She pulls my hands away. “It’ll be okay. OKOK.” She looks deep into my eyes with certainty.
“How can you say that? How can you be so calm?” I demand.
YP signs low in the seat so she doesn’t draw attention to our conversation. “Before Kyle, before Cheer, before you, I was B U S T E D.”
“No shit?”
“And not by my dad, or principal. Real, real B U S T E D. They————my room, took———everything.”
“That’s why your room is so empty!” She must have been doing some really serious art to get the cops to raid her room. If the thought of a raid at the moment wasn’t so terrifying, I would be impressed.
“Never—————replace any of it.”
“Did they…?” I pantomime handcuffs, grab invisible bars in front of my face.
“Nah, in the end they not P R O V E it. And they not P R O V E this, either.” She reaches out and squeezes my hand.
Fem Cop is holding up the mop marker, examining it from different angles, shoulder crunched against her radio, probably relaying a description. Big Cop stands to the side, looking more punchable than ever, copying info from our IDs onto yellow slips of paper.
“I tried. I tried telling you at the water tower,” I start. How do I explain this to her? She’s calm, I’m a mess. She’s not going to want to stop. Why should she?
“What?” she asks.
“I can’t keep doing this.” I point around the car. “I can’t keep lying to Mee and Ma; I can’t risk getting kicked out of another school. Especially not now.”
“There—-other schools.”
“None with you in them.”
We both cry, holding each other’s hands. We almost laugh, until we remember where we are.
The cops, each taking a side, open the doors of the cruiser and order us out. They lead us around to the front of the vehicle. “Tilt your heads back,” Big Cop barks, and motions for my benefit. We comply. Fem Cop takes a flashlight off her belt. What are they doing? They wouldn’t give me paper, but they wouldn’t…beat us or anything, would they? Fem Cop clicks on the flashlight and shines it up my nose. What the fuck?
She does the same to YP a
nd shakes her head no to Big Cop. His shoulders drop in disappointment. He hands back our IDs, along with the yellow slips he was writing on earlier. “We took——all——information so—————you—-get away—-———,” he says to YP. Fem Cop makes a show of keeping my mop. Great. She can have it.
“—-—free to go?” YP asks. Big Cop dejectedly tells her yes. YP grabs me by the arm and leads me away. Thank you, Universe.
—
We bike around Sunnyside, me standing on her back pegs. She pedals steadily. We’re taking the longest and windingest path back to Lee. Don’t want the cops knowing my car, my plates, or where I live. We take our time.
“Want to eat?” she asks at a red light. My stomach has barely settled from our near-arrest, but if YP wants to eat, I’m not going to say no. We lock her bike outside of a place called Tofu and Noodles. We sit at the table in the window so YP can keep an eye on her wheels. The waitress pours us waters and sets out five tiny bowls, each with a different type of kimchi.
“Kimchi smells like S O C K S,” I whine.
“It’s good!” She fills up a chopstickful and hurries it into her mouth. We pore through the pictures on the menu. I’m only halfway present. The other half of me is still in the back of that cruiser, headed for a holding cell.
“What you want?” YP flips through the menu.
“Split this with me?” I point, and her eyes light up.
“My favorite!” YP smiles, tapping her chin. She tells the waitress our order and eats more mouthfuls of kimchi cucumbers and kimchi classic. I still don’t have an appetite.
“Why aren’t you freaking out?” I ask her. I can’t stop bobbing my knee up and down. I tap the table with the white plastic chopsticks. YP reaches over and stops my hand.
You're Welcome, Universe Page 18