You're Welcome, Universe

by Whitney Gardner

“It’s over, we’re fine,” she signs with one hand. It’s amazing how far her sign language has come. We haven’t had our phones out since 5 Pointz, and we haven’t missed a beat.

  “Well, I’m freaking out.” I start bouncing both my knees.

  “I see that.” YP takes her hand back so she can eat some more kimchi.

  “What are we going to do, though?” I can’t stop looking back over my shoulder, at her bike, still locked to a street sign, but no one is coming. We should be fine, but I don’t feel it yet.

  “First, we eat. Then, bike to L E E. Then—”

  “No, about us. About…” I mime spraying paint across the air.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she says, forgetting to sign, mouth full. I’ll never eat kimchi, never.

  “Stop, right? Shouldn’t we stop?” My right hand chops my left palm. “Why didn’t you stop when you got caught?”

  “I did. For a long time. I was done. I was out.”

  “What happened?” I’m rapt, still. On the edge of my seat, and she practically spits out her soda, laughing at me. “What?” I shake my hands furiously.

  “I saw your whale and I couldn’t help myself.” She almost looks bashful, breaking eye contact and looking down at the table. Our waitress brings over a huge plate, steam rising off of the whole grilled octopus that we ordered. She takes out a pair of scissors from her apron and cuts it up for us before leaving us to it. It smells and looks delicious, and suddenly, finally, I’m starving.

  We pop the front wheel off YP’s bike and angle the body into the back of my car. I’ll take her home eventually, but I’m not ready to let her go yet. She takes up her usual position, sitting back against the glove box, cross-legged in the passenger seat. I turn on Lee and crank the heat.

  “Can I ask you a T O Y question?” I ask before pulling out.

  “You’re not T O Y.”

  “Why did that cop do that? With the flashlight?” I mime shining one.

  “To see up your nose.”

  “For what? D R U G S?” This gets a big laugh. “Told you I’m a toy.”

  “That’s why you wear the mask,” she motions. “The paint—-stain——nose hairs.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” I ask, and she crosses her heart with her pointer finger. I turn the key. YP reaches out and touches my arm.

  “Hey, can I ask you a question?” We should probably stop asking if we can ask and just ask.

  “Just ask from now on, OKOK?” I tell her, and she smiles.

  “Why you call me YP?”

  “Uh…Don’t be mad, OKOK?”

  “Never.”

  “Your pants.”

  “My pants?!”

  “You always wear Y O G A pants, Yoga Pants, YP.” I squint and look away without really looking away.

  “Ha! I like it,” she says. “I hate J E A N S. Hate.”

  “What’d they ever do to you?”

  “Make me feel huge. Yoga pants don’t really have numbered sizes.”

  “Do you want a new name?”

  “Nope, never.”

  I start to drive, but somewhere along Queens Boulevard I decide we aren’t going back to her house. Not yet.

  We pull into the small parking lot next to the acupuncture shop as the streetlights flicker to life against a navy sky. I should text Mee.

  JULIA: be home soon-ish. At the wall with YP.

  MEE: :) :O :) YAY. See u soon my love.

  “So,” I ask YP, “what do you think?”

  “Of what?” YP looks around the small parking lot, confused.

  “The wall!” I spread my arms out, presenting it through the windshield.

  “I think you were right.”

  “I want to, and I don’t.” I bite my lip, it’s not fair. I don’t want to force her to give up her game. That’s her choice. I’m worried my wall is a poor substitute for the real thing.

  “Same.” YP’s hand moves back and forth.

  “You and me, together, it’s next-level art.”

  “T R U T H,” she spells with a pursed smile.

  “Why do you love G R A F F so much?” I ask her. YP takes her time before answering. She looks up and down Mee’s wall.

  “I love making art you can’t escape.”

  “Big.” I grin.

  “Yeah, big.”

  “Big like a whale. Big and beautiful.”

  “Yeah, big,” she repeats.

  “Big is best.” I elbow her.

  “Okay!” She lets out a laugh and rolls her eyes to the roof. We take some time to consider the wall and our future in front of us. I can still smell the paint in the air from our 5 Pointz piece, but I’m sure it’s only in my head. It was magic, working alongside her instead of against her. The closest thing to telepathy I’ve experienced outside of my dreams. Sitting in the back of that cruiser, though, I never want to experience that again. Mee will be thrilled if we paint her wall, but I’m sure YP will think it’s too easy.

  “Would you still love it, if it was legal?” I break the silence.

  “Maybe. I might miss the R I S K. But I wouldn’t stop.”

  “If it’s legal, are we posers?” I ask.

  “You’ll never be a poser. That underpass was the best thing ever.”

  “Then we can’t quit,” I say, determined.

  “But what about—”

  “Cops can’t stop us from writing on our own wall.”

  —

  By the time I drop YP off at her house, my stomach has unknotted itself. It’s almost relief. We’re okay. Yes, we’re safe and free and clear. But we’re okay. Us. We’re going to be OKOK. And we get to keep painting. Bless Mee. It’s not about the risk. It’s about the art. I know YP and I could make something impressive without the pressure of cops breathing down our necks. I can only imagine.

  I notice my backpack in the rearview and realize there are still a few kinks in my gut to work out. Katz. And Casey. Casey wasn’t the most professional interpreter I’ve ever met, but is professional really what I want? At least she cares. It could be a little much, but that’s nothing time couldn’t fix. I should have cut her some slack.

  I feel the worst about Katz. I burned him pretty bad. All he ever did was help me, include me, even when he couldn’t. That illustrated album. Jesus, Julia. You were such a bitch. I have to fix this. I have to apologize.

  —

  Greenlawn Drugs is still open. I’m here for one thing, I just hope they have it. As I look up and down the aisles I consider the letter I’ll write Casey. I’ll grovel if I have to. She should get to come back. That is, if she wants to. If I were her, I’d be through with me.

  I zero in on a big bucket of sidewalk chalk. Perfect. I toss it on the passenger seat and rifle through all the papers on the car floor. All I need now is the yellow envelope that had my Bob Dylan album in it. The lyrics are all here, but I hope the envelope didn’t get dumped out of my bag back in Queens.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket: Ma checking in. My new rule is always answer their texts. I’ve put them through enough, and they only know the half of it. I’d like to keep it that way. I let Ma know where I’m at and my ETA, and she seems satisfied, even a little cheery. I crouch down and feel around under the seat, find a crumpled take-out bag. I reach in again and I’m in luck, there it is.

  I bet Katz didn’t realize his address was on the front when he gave it to me, reusing the envelope from some other package. Just what I needed. I tear off down the street in Lee, chalk safe beside me.

  Mr. Katz lives in a big farmhouse. Smoke rises up from his chimney; he must be home. There are lights on, but they’re all on the opposite side of the house. It’s only chalk, right? I cut the headlights and pull over behind a big fir tree. Lee’s gray paint job camouflages her well. After grabbing the bucket of chalk and the sketchbook full of signs, I close the door as quietly as possible.

  His driveway is long, his house set far off the main road. At the end of the driveway, in front of the house, are two cars: his and Cas
ey’s. Ooh-la-la. I think fast, changing up my plans now that I know she’s here. Nothing drastic, though. Still going for it.

  I carefully pick out colors of chalk by the light of my phone. Despite the size of the bucket, the shades are limited. They’re all washed-out pastel blue, green, pink, or orange. I’ll make it work.

  This’ll be my first—and last—chalk piece ever. Why can’t you be more like paint? I try my usual outlining method, and it works all right. But only all right. I’m going for epic apology here, and all right–looking pisses me off.

  I push through, filling in the shapes, getting chalk fingerprints all over everything, mostly my clothes. Strange that the legal stuff is twice as messy. Takes twice as long, too. I really want to cover the driveway, but if I did, it would take until first period tomorrow.

  The last orange stick wears down to a pebble and I pack it in.

  I take out Katz’s sketchbook, the one I illustrated all the signs in, and go to leave it in his mailbox on my way out. Unfortunately, his mailbox is attached to his house, right next to the door. But I just bombed 5 Pointz. I can sneak a book in a mailbox.

  I creep up the steps slowly, hoping that the old wood isn’t groaning under me. When I reach the top, the porch lights flick on. I dash to the mailbox as quickly as I can and try to fit the sketchbook in the slot. My hands are trembling and I accidentally drop the book. As I’m picking it up, I feel the door swing open.

  “What are you doing here?!” Casey signs from the doorway. She wraps a blanket around her shoulders, covering up her matching pajama set. She’s obviously pissed, but she looks so dorky I can’t help but smile. “You’ve caused me enough trouble. Go home.” I stop her from swinging the screen door shut. I angle myself so she’s looking at me and not my chalk masterpiece in the driveway. Let her see that in the morning.

  “Wait! No. I—I wanted to say I’m sorry,” I tell her. Casey looks over her shoulder into the house.

  “Well, he’s sleeping, so tell him at school.”

  “Not to him, to you.” She’s surprised to hear me say it and I feel so guilty for it. She never expected an apology from me, and not because she doesn’t deserve one. She really, really does. I look down at the sketchbook I made for Katz and realize it shouldn’t be for him. Of course it should be hers. “Hang on,” I sign, and she wraps the blanket tighter, covering her arms while she doesn’t have to speak.

  I take out a pen from my pocket and uncap it with my teeth. I open up the book to two blank pages, and on the first I scribble out the sign for the word sorry. Then I draw her name sign, the one she’s wanted since the day we met. I hope she understands. I hope she likes what I’ve chosen. I think it suits her.

  “Here. For you.” I hand her the sketchbook. She flips through every page, the blanket resting on her shoulders like a cape. When she gets to the last two pages, she looks up and signs,

  “Forgiven.”

  The kitchen light is on when I get home. I debate getting back into Lee and driving around the block until it goes dark. I don’t really have a curfew, more like an unspoken rule that I should be home before midnight. I have three minutes. I park in the driveway. It’s not like Ma will know what I’ve been up to.

  But Ma isn’t in the kitchen having her usual late-night Sleepytime tea fix. It’s Mee, surrounded by tinfoil take-out containers. The whole room smells of onion, garlic, and butter. With the smallest hint of garam masala.

  “Want to share?” she asks, without looking up.

  “Sure.” I sit across from her and scoop some chicken makhani onto a slice of almost-stale naan. Mee is an expert at reheating food. Every time I try to reheat leftovers, they come out scalding, and I burn my tongue so badly I can barely taste the rest of the meal. Ma is useless at it too, but she has the opposite problem. Cold in the middle. Mee’s technique, whatever it is, is foolproof. Every bite warm and perfect.

  “Makhani is my favorite,” I sign, and chew.

  “I don’t doubt it, you’re practically made of the stuff.” She smiles.

  “What do you mean?”

  “When I was pregnant, it’s all I wanted to eat.” Mee takes the tin of shrimp pakoras and dumps the remaining two onto my plate. She folds up the tin and tosses it into the recycling bin. “Your poor mother. I made her go out and get it for me all the time. Almost every day. Once, I made her go twice in one day. I swear Rajdhani’s is still in business because of you. It’s certainly not because of that guy who works there, the rude one?”

  “Avi,” I remind her.

  “Right. I’m lucky I met your mom; she doesn’t put up with any shit. Like you.” She takes my empty plate away and I help her clean up the table.

  “Mee.” I stop her before she begins washing our dishes. “I’m going to start the mural. But I’m going to paint it with my friend from school.”

  Mee hugs me and lifts my feet an inch off the ground. She bounces in place without letting go. I try to sign to her, tell her to stop, but my arms are pinned to my sides, so I just give in. I feel her laughing, and everything about it comforts me.

  “I’m sorry about this year,” I tell her when she finally lets me go.

  “You’re sixteen. It’s to be expected.” She brushes my hair behind my shoulders. “When I was sixteen, I tried to take a train across the country to see Nirvana play in Seattle.”

  “You did what? How? When? Wait…what?” I follow her around the kitchen as she puts everything away.

  “That’s a story for another time.” Mee flicks the lights off and then kisses her thumb and presses it to my forehead. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  I would never have gone back. I would have left my job at Mickey D’s without a second thought. But I left my black bag in my locker and I want it. I want to use the last of my overpass paint for our new piece. I want all of our histories, YP’s and mine, tangled up together on the wall, our wall.

  “Thank God, you’re here.” Jordyn rushes over to me as soon as I enter the locker room, her face slick with tears.

  “What happened to you?”

  “Donovan,” she signs, sobbing. “He fucking dumped me, can you believe it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come on, Julia. I need you.”

  “Of course you do,” I tell her with calm confidence. “This is what always happens. You only ever want me around when you need something.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic.” She wipes her face dry.

  “You’re the one crying over that loser with Mountain Dew breath,” I joke, and she chuckles.

  “What am I gonna do?” she asks, eyes fixed on the floor.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re supposed to make me feel better.”

  “Why should I?” I actually want her to tell me. I wonder if she even realizes how hypocritical she’s being.

  “Because we were friends.”

  “Were we?”

  “Sometimes.” She almost looks embarrassed. Almost.

  “That’s not good enough anymore. I don’t want sometimes friends.”

  “Right, you don’t want any friends because you’re too cool or whatever. You’re better than friends.”

  “I’m not better than friends, I want better friends. I want friends who are all in, all the time. It can’t just be all on your terms. You have to care, care about more than just yourself.”

  “This isn’t about you! It’s about Donovan breaking up with me for that über-bitch with the glasses.”

  “Look, you’ll get over it.” I wrap my arm around her shoulder. “You always do. This isn’t the first time this has happened, and it won’t be the last.” I open my locker and grab my black bag. I stuff whatever is left behind in the front pocket. Jordyn calms down, she pulls her hair up, ready to start her shift.

  “You’re right,” she says.

  “And when it does happen again”—I stop and look directly into her eyes; I need her to understand me—“I don’t want to hear about it.” I fling my bag
over my shoulder and head out the back door. She stomps her foot over and over, and I turn around.

  “Wait! Where are you going?” she pleads, eyebrows arched.

  “I quit.”

  It will be the biggest piece we’ve ever done. Bigger than the underpass, bigger than 5 Pointz. We’re going to have to work our asses off. YP hauls paint from my trunk while I lay out some tarps. It feels strange to be setting up properly, in the light of day. I’ve seen two cop cars pass us, and each time I swear I froze in place. They didn’t give us a second glance.

  YP’s dad brought over two ladders this morning and now he’s at breakfast with my parents. They seem to be getting along, even though he’s probably the worst texter I’ve ever met in my life. I finish with the tarps and back up, trying to take it all in. A blue mote of plastic underneath our White Dove wall.

  “Do you think we got enough purple?” YP asks, signs springing from her fingertips.

  “Are you kidding? We probably got too much.” We did go overboard buying the paint. Our parents pitched in, and it was so much easier without all the covert ops that we ended up buying enough paint for two murals.

  I wrench open the small can of Clear Skies, a light blue color we’re going to use to outline the mural with. It’s light enough that it won’t show through the finished piece. YP brings over some brushes.

  “You have the paper, right?” I ask her.

  “Paper? For what?” Her eyebrows angle together. Even her facial expressions are getting better. She’s losing her hearie accent.

  “Our plans! The plans for the wall?” YP pats her pants out of instinct, I guess, because I don’t know what pair of yoga pants has pockets. Her hands shoot up to her mouth, she’s panicked.

  “Oh, my God, I can’t believe I forgot it. We can start tomorrow, I’m so sorry. Julia. Please, you have to—”

  I hold my hands up to stop her. “Don’t worry about it.” I try to calm her down.

  “Are you sure? What do you want to do? Should we wait, you want to drive to Greenlawn?”

  “Whoa, whoa. Okay, deep breath.” I take one for myself and mime for her to do the same. She does, but she still looks uneasy. “We don’t need the plans, we’ve gone over it a dozen times.”