“Yeah, well.” She scuffs her ballet flat along the floor. “He has his moments.”
We both go quiet, and I do what I always do when I’m in the dressing room: organize. I reach for a jumbled box of scarves and start rolling them up, one by one, while Annette stands there biting her thumbnail.
“I’m sorry Colonel Chickenhead doesn’t always take you seriously,” I finally say. My nickname gets the faintest smile out of her, but she says nothing. “And thanks for setting up that field trip. It was actually fun.”
She straightens. “You’re welcome.”
“Fighting me now, though? So that Tim Ellison will buy you coffee?”
“That’s not why I’m doing it.”
“Right,” I scoff, white silk loose around my fist. “It’s graffiti. You’re mad that I’m scamming colleges.” I shake my head. “I mean, it’s one thing to prove yourself to Sanders, but did it ever occur to you that this is my actual life you’re ruining?”
“I’m sorry it seems personal,” she says, “but there really are people who don’t want a giant anti-gun mural on campus. I’m only trying to be a voice.”
“Do you have a gun?” I ask, before I can stop myself. “I know you’re in that marksmanship group.”
She hesitates. “Yes. My parents keep one locked up. And I’m glad. I don’t live in the best part of town. It’s nice to feel safe.”
I chew my lip. I want to ask her if she really thinks that gun is making her safer. I want to know how she’d feel if a burglar came in and her dad shot him. If she was forced to pull that trigger. If she thinks she’d be able to live with herself afterwards. But I don’t. Can’t. Maybe I already know the answer.
Miss Garcia knocks gently on the door, popping her head back in. “Ready, girls?”
My stomach backflips. Pretty sure I’m never going to be ready. Especially if that group of tight-ass board members voted the way I think they have. Because, for all her underdog posturing, Annette is really fucking good at arguing. Not that I’m going to tell her that.
The whole board is standing there when we walk back in. Chatting, looking at their phones, ready to deliver the news and then leave. Kill my dreams, real quick, before their morning meetings. The first one to make eye contact is Mr. Ellison, and the guy practically has steam coming out of his hairy ears.
“Miss Martinez, Miss Carlson,” Sanders says, standing at the edge of the stage. “Thank you for your time and well-prepared arguments. Although we greatly appreciate what you both had to say, we’ve decided to follow through with the mural.”
“Oh my God!” I shriek. And jump and clap and would do backflips, but A, how do you do a backflip? and B, I am wearing a skirt.
Annette smiles, her chest falling slightly.
“Johanna?” Sanders pulls me aside, handing back my notecards. “We read the rest of your arguments. Civic participation is something we strive for at Chavez.” He looks over his shoulder, then back at me, his voice hushed. “You know, maybe if you’d made some of these points earlier—when you should have been securing permission from me in the first place—we could have avoided all this.”
“Oh, yeah?” My skin bursts into flames … but I stand down. I’m not here to fight or get in trouble. Instead, I plaster a bright, plucky smile onto my face. “So now we can start the mural?”
His jaw muscles flex, but he stands down too. “Whenever you can coordinate with the organization.”
“Like, yesterday. They’re so ready to help.”
“Well, you’ll have full support from the school, and weekend access to campus—no cutting class to paint. And the board will have design approval.”
“Done,” I say, grinning.
A handshake fest feels like the Annette thing to do, so maybe it’s my hat tip to her as I race over to the board, palms sweating, thanking them one by one. Even Mr. Ellison, who still looks encircled by pythons.
Annette gathers her things and struts up the aisle, but I catch her before she reaches the door.
“Annette, wait up.”
“What, time to gloat?”
“Of course not. I wanted to say, good job—and sorry.”
“No, you’re not,” she says, but she extends her hand to me anyway. “Congratulations.”
Then she’s gone, ducking into the ladies’ room. I don’t follow. Instead, I walk outside where it’s not just Leah and Gabby and Milo waiting for me, but everyone else who’s shown support in the past few weeks.
“Well?” Leah asks, wincing. “Are we happy or sad?”
“We’re … happy!” I scream. “They said yes!”
A small group surrounds me—high fives from Steve, and Rachel, and her friend Jenny, and the Kenworth twins, and my art class. Leah’s arms go strangulation-tight, Gabby and Milo layering over her, adding to my smotherization.
I won. I feel unstoppable. This mural is going to happen. It will be enormous and beautiful and perfect. It will be a brilliant star to grace the darkness.
34
Blood. Sweat. Tears. That’s what goes into the mural, once the design has been approved and all systems are go. February turns to March, and we work. Mapping out the structure and flow of the piece, stenciling quotes and mottos and painting them bold and bright and unforgettable.
The looks around campus still give me ulcers. Minor migraines. Nobody straight-up bothers me anymore, but I can feel some of them wanting to. So I stay focused. Dogged. If I show my devotion to the mural, they won’t be able to mention the heavy, gray cloud that is drooping over my head. Big plastic smiles help too.
“What do you think?” I ask Barb, the artistic director.
I climb down a ladder propped against the science building’s stucco wall and stand next to our short, plump leader, pointing up at the top right section where G(un)safe is painted in thick, green letters.
Barb nods as she reweaves her long black braid. “I like the camo green, but what’s your end goal? What do you want people to take away when they’re seeing it for the first time?”
“I want …” I cock my head. “I want to take their breath away?”
She smiles proudly at me. “And does camo green take your breath away?”
I laugh.
“Hey, maybe it does!” She pats my shoulder and slides on a tight leather jacket. “I guess I’ll see tomorrow?”
She zooms off on a Harley, and I only have to stare at our stockpile of paints for half a second before reaching for this tub of dramatic, candy-apple red.
“Ooh, good call,” Leah says. “That’s going to look so dope.”
“Diggidy dope.”
“Dope-a-rama.”
“The Dopeness.”
“Okay, stop,” Milo says. “You two are embarrassing not only yourselves, but all of humankind.”
“Whatever, Dopemeister Schmidt.”
I blow him a kiss and shimmy back up the ladder. Vermillion red lands in thick, glossy strokes around the parentheses. Barb was right. She really knows what she’s doing, but she never condescends or feeds us answers. After a couple more coats, I climb down again, resting my brush in the paint can. I take a step back and cross my arms, eyes settling on a burst of sunshine in the center of the wall. Dandelion-yellow rays streaming through a tuft of summer-white clouds.
Serene, angelic. Heavenly.
The whole world goes still for a moment, despite the constant churn of acid in my gut. Fists clenched, breath held. I listen for her; try to visualize her as hidden 3-D art, emerging through layers of acrylic.
Mom?
Can you hear me?
Is this what you wanted?
Am I doing it right?
Something.
Anything.
Please …
“You okay?” Milo’s arms slide around my waist.
I blink a beat too long but cover it with a grin. “Yeah, I’m fine. This looks great, huh?”
“Dopetastic.” He pecks me on the lips and then walks back to finish a thick black Zia symbol. “S
un’s almost down. Want to pack it in?”
“Yeah, in a few. I’m just going to—”
“Hey, Johanna? Do you have a second?”
I swing around, face-to-face with—“Tim?”
He stuffs his hands deep in his jeans pockets, staring down at his feet. There’s something weird about him when he looks up, though—something off. A bit of smugness faded from his pretty boy face.
“What do you want?”
“I need to talk to you,” he mumbles. “It’ll only take a second.”
“If you’re here to heckle me, can it wait?” I grab a paintbrush, squeezing it in my fist. “We have, like, ten minutes of daylight left, and I’m kinda on a deadline here. We only have a few days to finish the mural. Not that you care.”
“I’m not going to heckle you,” he says. “I swear.”
The defeated edge to his voice trips me up. I let the brush dangle by my side, red paint dripping off the bristles. “Spit it out, then.”
“It’s—” He pauses, cheeks pink with Milo and Leah gawking at him. “It’s private.”
“Oh, please. You have absolutely nothing private to say to me.”
I start to turn away and he blurts, “It’s about FakerX.”
“What?”
“It was me.”
I gasp. Which annoys me because it’s not like this is even remotely a surprise. But I don’t know. I’m speechless.
“I so called that,” Leah mutters.
“But why?” I finally manage.
“It was only a joke.”
“Sick joke,” Milo says, walking up behind me.
“It wasn’t supposed to go viral. I mean—” He snorts, a hint of the real Tim shining through. “It was pretty funny when it did! And, like, I don’t know what to say about those bullshit photocopies around campus—I didn’t post that shit. But when you brought one to the hearing, it dawned on my father to check my Photoshop account. Since then, he’s been talking with Sanders and Coach Fishkin. They’re going to bench me for a game.”
“One game? You poor thing,” I say. Voice sweet, eyes nuclear.
“Hey, I’m their best scorer!”
Hate rolls through me faster than a bowling ball, knocking down any amount of Zen atonement this stupid mural is supposed to have brought me. The spell breaks, and I scream, hurling my paintbrush right at his dumbfuck face. Tim raises an arm to block it, but I get him anyway, bloodred paint streaking his leather jacket.
“What the shit!” Tim barks, fingers rubbing against the leather, only making it worse.
“Don’t what-the-shit me, you disgusting pig.”
I feel Milo’s hand wrap around my bicep, holding me back as I lunge forward.
“That picture nearly destroyed me,” I say, tears welling up in my eyes. “And you expect me to feel bad that you can’t run down a field with a stick for one stupid game? Go to hell! I wish they’d expelled you!”
“God, lighten up,” he says, swallowing hard. “I said I was sorry.”
“What? When?”
“Yeah, you so skipped the S-word,” Leah chimes in.
“Sorry. Okay?”
I scoff at his ten-cent apology.
Leah rolls her eyes. “And the Academy Award goes to …”
“Butt out, freak.”
“Watch your fucking mouth!” I roar.
Tim’s eyes get huge. A little bit Jack Nicholson Here’s Johnny! mixed with a nugget of true remorse. “Look. Are you going to let me finish, or do you have more paint to throw?”
My eyes narrow. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m not just sitting out one lacrosse game.” He pauses, gesturing toward the mural, which has become almost indecipherable in the twilight. “Sanders wants me to do community service.”
“Here?” I gasp.
“Look, I’ll admit it was shitty. Photoshopping that picture was mostly Brandon’s idea, but whatever. I’m not going to narc on my best friend.”
Milo cringes. “Your morals go sky-high, man.”
“Thanks but no thanks, ass-hat. I’m declining your humbly altruistic offer.”
“Sadly, I don’t think you can.”
I groan, wailing up toward the first star in the night sky.
“Would you stop freaking out?” he says. “I’m not going to sabotage your pathetic masterpiece. Give me a stupid brush, okay?”
Ugh. The utter unholiness of Tim Ellison darkening my peaceful opus. Another one of God’s ironic jokes. “This is a nightmare. Right? I’m living an actual fucking nightmare.”
Leah chuckles, a smile edging onto her lips. I can just picture Dharma, her psychic, urging me to see the good in Tim. As if there is one fingernail-clipping-sized shred of virtue within his entire dickhole self.
“Fine.” I grab a paintbrush, thumbing the soft, clean bristles. “You can help.”
“I’m honored.” He stands up straight, reaching out for the brush.
“Not so fast.” On second thought, I slide the brush in my back pocket and point to a dozen trays of dried-out paint and cracked, congealing brushes. “Clean this stuff up. We need to start fresh tomorrow.”
Leah laughs her ass off as I toss another couple of dirty brushes on the stack. Tim’s face sours, but he doesn’t argue.
Inside my head, a stadium full of bullied teens cheer for me.
• • •
Grandpa’s standing in the doorway when I open it, hanging Magic’s leash back up on the wall.
“Welcome home, Picasso!” He laughs, and I look down at my clothes and hands, smeared with paint.
“It’s from Gabby’s,” I lie. “Her mom had us help out with a new painting.”
“I hope you’ll be getting a commission for that!”
I stare blankly at him, and he shakes his head. “Never mind. Glad to see you and your friends are having fun in between all that studying.”
“Can I go to my room now? I ate at Gabby’s.”
In the kitchen, we hear water running, the garbage disposal churning. Grandpa sighs, eyes drifting back to me. “Are you ever going to talk to her again?”
“Don’t blame me for this. I think I’m being pretty damn cordial, if you ask me.”
“Hey, now.”
My eyes lower. “Sorry.”
We stand there for another minute, Magic looking back and forth between the two of us, wondering if he’s getting a second walk tonight. Dishes continue to clatter in the kitchen, and I think about the old days, how I’d be helping Gran while Grandpa watched TV. Now, she either cooks alone or he struggles through peeling and chopping vegetables. The two of them silent. Barely speaking to each other under the strain. Forty-five years of marriage, and I’ve completely broken my grandparents. No guilt there.
“We miss you, JoJo,” he says softly.
I hesitate. I should bite my tongue, but—“Yeah, well, it’s kind of hard to miss the people who kept this giant secret from me,” I say. “Now can I go to my room?”
Grandpa lets out a slow, defeated breath as his eyebrows draw in. “Go on, then. I’ve got turpentine in the shed if you can’t wash off that paint. Let me know if you need it.”
His gentle voice takes shape around my heart. I’m horrible. He loves me, and I’m making him into my punching bag. I wish it didn’t have to be like this. I wish things could have gone differently. So frigging differently. But they didn’t.
I look at my rough, multicolored hands and frown. “I’ll be okay.”
35
My ass is numb.
All three hundred Chavez students are sandwiched together like baby chicks, crammed onto every patch of grass outside the science building, with our knees banging and shivery, aglow with anticipation. The mural’s done. It’s bold and glorious and beyond breathtaking. The president of the gun violence prevention group is here for the unveiling, along with Barb, and even someone from the newspaper.
A muffled hush falls over the crowd as Dr. Sanders approaches the podium.
“Gun viole
nce. Stops. With us,” he says, pausing like some beret-wearing beatnik between each phrase. Practically every word. “Besos. Not. Bullets … G(un)safe.” And finally: “Hashtag Enough.”
Okay, Hashtag Enough sounds about the dumbest, but all the words Barb helped us curate for the mural sound a little bit douchier coming out of Colonel Sanders’s ancient, ChapStick-deficient mouth.
“I’m honored to be standing here with all of you today. Such a bright, talented, courageous group of students.”
Leah gives the air in front of her a pretend hand job, low enough so Sanders can’t see. I don’t laugh, though. Not after the way he antagonized me and belittled me and fanned the flames. Now he’s up there, eating his own shit pie with whipped cream, talking about the perils of gun violence as if it means something to him. As if our voices matter to him, and we’re going to be the change and the salvation and blah-blah-blah.
I squirm a little in my cross-legged position on the ground as his eyes sweep the crowd, a Jedi master holding the gaze of as many students and faculty as possible. The last person he looks at is me, and my shoulders droop.
“As you all know, none of this would have been possible without the focus and perseverance of one Chavez Academy student.” His lips tighten. “Johanna Carlson.”
Gabby squeezes my shoulder.
“All of you are here today to show your commitment—as young people, as citizens—by taking part in the fight to reduce gun violence. And it was Miss Carlson’s commitment to uniting the student body that has made this pledge possible. It is every Head of School’s dream to rear students with such determination and fearlessness.”
I start to feel enormous under his magnifying glass. Not only does he sound massively insincere, but he’s making me look like such a brownnoser—calling me a beacon of hope, a force to be reckoned with; totally playing into the theory that I only did the mural to bulk up my extracurriculars. Maybe a fifth of the kids don’t clap, and I hardly blame them. I’m not the next Banksy, even though Colonel Sanders actually makes that comparison. Cringe.
A few rows over, I wait for Annette to audibly moan or roll her eyes, but she stays quiet. Distracted, almost. In fact, Tim seems to be sitting pretty damn close to her. Tim, who showed up twice to clean paint brushes. What a saint.
Accidental Page 21
