For the first time, Abigail saw some passion in her father’s eyes. The subject of graffiti had eroded his guard. She liked that something upset him. It made him more real.
“It’s freedom of expression,” Becky said, staring back at him.
Abigail suddenly wished she’d worn her STUFF THE MONARCHY T-shirt instead. She wanted to remain invisible here. Political protest in the UK seemed to be a less contentious issue than vandalism in LA. Fine by her. She had no political allegiances whatsoever.
“I’ll get you some new clothes tomorrow,” Melanie said, ever the peacemaker.
“I have plenty of clothes for Abigail,” Becky said. “We’re sisters, you know. They’ll probably fit.” Her tone was flat.
Grahame and Melanie glanced at each other.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Grahame said. He wiped his mouth with his serviette, folded it neatly, and placed it beside his empty dessert bowl. “We have drinks tonight with our good friends, the Howards. Planned it ages ago. We’d take you, but—”
“You’d be bored out of your brain,” Becky finished.
He smirked. “Well, yes, frankly. Becky will look after you.”
“But I’m going out, too. I planned it ages ago,” Becky protested.
“Take Abigail. I’m sure she’d love to go.”
“It won’t be fun for her.”
Abigail swallowed. They were suddenly talking about her as if she weren’t in the room. Bad sign. It was the same thing social workers always did whenever she was about to be moved.
“Becky, it’s your sister’s first night here.” Grahame’s voice hardened. “Either don’t go out or take her with you.”
“It’s your daughter’s first night here,” Becky snarled, grabbing her dishes in a huff and storming off to the kitchen.
ABIGAIL COULDN’T CARE LESS about going out. She didn’t want to tag along with Becky. Mostly she wanted to snoop around the house, alone. But she did hate the fact that she was already a nuisance. It was clear Becky resented her. Who wouldn’t? A brand-new sister: a crazy street punk with a stupid accent who had stormed into Becky’s cozy existence without warning. All her life, Abigail had worked hard at not getting in people’s way, at not needing people, and here she was on the very first day, already a needy pain in the ass.
The moment Melanie and Grahame left the two of them alone—not before hugging Abigail again (she hoped all this demonstrativeness would peter out)—Becky dashed upstairs. Abigail followed to find her in the hall, pulling down a ladder from a trapdoor in the ceiling.
“Listen, I’ll stay here,” Abigail told her. “I’ll be fine.”
“No. I’ve been told.” Becky climbed up the ladder and disappeared into the attic space.
The curt martyr-tone was too much. “I don’t want to come,” Abigail snapped.
Her sister appeared at the trapdoor. “Come up and grab the bottom of this.”
Abigail knew she couldn’t argue. It was too soon. And judging from Becky’s smile, Becky also knew that she was in total control of the situation. Abigail climbed to the top, where her new sister was gripping the edge of a large chest, ready to descend.
“Grab the other end. Can you slide it down? It’s not heavy.”
“No problem,” Abigail muttered.
The chest felt empty. Nothing rattled inside. It bumped against each rung of the ladder as she backed herself down and slid it onto the floor.
“I found it up there last week,” Becky said when she reached the hall floor. “Might break it open and use it for storage.”
“What’s up there?”
“Just a bunch of old junk. Sentimental stuff he’s hidden away.”
“Is he very sentimental?”
“Okay, wrong word. I’d describe Dad as … misguided. Ha! That’s what he says about me.” Becky slid the ladder back into place. “About tonight. Can you keep your mouth shut?”
“Depends.”
“You have to promise me you will.”
Abigail felt herself slump. Would this involve pissing off her dad and Melanie? Or something illegal that could send her back to Glasgow? “Like I said, I’d actually prefer to stay here. I’ll stay in my room and tell them you took me.”
“No. Come on.” Becky sighed. “Look, I’m sorry I got bitchy. But you have to promise to keep your mouth shut.”
“Not if your secret involves hurting anyone.”
Becky’s eyes flickered, as if she were offended. “Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
“It won’t hurt anyone.”
“Or get me in trouble?”
“You’ll be fine.” Becky hesitated. “Abigail, I’m glad you’re here. I mean it. I want you to do this with me.”
Abigail thought for a moment. “Okay then.” To be honest, she was dying to know what on earth her sister was up to that required strict codes of secrecy and this empty chest. She helped her sister carry it downstairs, stopping to rest in the hall.
“What’s in there?” Abigail pointed to a closed door, wondering what the rules were in a family home like this. Did door closed mean never go in; or knock first, then go in? (Becky had entered her room with just a preliminary knock.) It struck Abigail as she looked around that this was the first time she’d ever had an exact address. If someone wrote to her, they’d address the letter to this exact place, not “C/O Peace Camp” or “C/O Glasgow City Council.” It wasn’t a van. And it wasn’t a shared shitehole. In the former, there was only one door, always unlocked, and she couldn’t recall ever knocking on it. In the latter, all the doors were fire resistant, with rectangles of reinforced glass. Entering them always required permission and was always done with a certain amount of trepidation. Here, there were dozens of them, all safe and open and welcoming and hers. Except for two: Becky’s bedroom and this one off the hall.
“It’s his den,” Becky finally said. “The torture chamber! Let’s get out of here.”
After some more grunting and groaning, Abigail managed to load the trunk into the back of her sister’s van, amidst piles of things (who knows what?) that were covered in blankets. She shut the passenger door as Becky jammed the keys into the ignition. A billboard-shaped cardboard cut-out dangled from the rearview mirror. GRAFFTI TEASE: WHAT DOES IT MEAN? The van stank from the overflowing ashtray.
“Where are we going?” Abigail asked.
“We, little sis, are going to bomb heaven.”
“You in al-Qaeda or something?”
“Ha! You’re funny. When I say heaven, m’dear, I mean the back of a freeway sign.”
Abigail had no idea what Becky was talking about. She wondered again if Becky wanted to get her into trouble. Maybe then her father would send her back, cast her aside, leaving Becky alone once more to enjoy the life she cherished.
“Stop worrying!” Becky giggled. “Not bomb bomb.”
BECKY JOHNSTONE WAS A confident, cocky driver. Abigail repeatedly checked her seatbelt as the van roared down the hills and then onto a freeway. She held the handle above the door for dear life, wondering if she could say “slow down” without sounding like a numpty. Bad form to change from Scottish punk to pathetic wimp in front of her new sister. Strange, she thought, if she’d met Becky back in Glasgow, she wouldn’t have given the girl the time of day. Rich angst: what a load of self-absorbed bollocks.
With only one hand on the wheel and one eye on the road, Becky plugged in her iPod and swiveled her thumb. “Listen to this.”
A news report blasted from the stereo: “Vandalism around Los Angeles has exploded since the infamous Graffiti Tease campaign began. No corporation or sponsor has claimed credit. Addressing his party at a conference on crime in Washington last night, Lieutenant Governor of California, Dennis Howard, said that he intends to make the problem of teenage delinquency his first priority.”
The broadcast cut to a man’s voice: “It’s not only about the graffiti. It’s about the lack of accountability. Not long ago, the news was filled with positive stories
about teens, about how they contributed—through communication, through social media, through the power of their voices. We heard how they raised awareness for their problems, how they pitched in for each other. We were inspired by kids who freed themselves from the shackles of their bad circumstances.
“But where’s the evidence? In vandalism? I’m not just looking at the graffiti. I’m looking at the data. Teen pregnancy has doubled in poorer urban communities. Drug and alcohol abuse remain rampant. Discussion of jobs, discussion of a future … There has been no progress. We’ve deluded ourselves into thinking we’ve made a difference. This newest wave of vandalism is ironically the best representation of what’s happening to our most at-risk youth.”
The presenter took over: “Mr. Howard concluded with a promise to tackle the issue.”
The Lieutenant Governor came back: “No more PC-dancing around what needs to be done. We need to take firm action. And we need to do it now. This is our future. Nothing is more important than our children.”
Becky switched off the iPod. She reached over and plucked a large pre-rolled joint out of the glove compartment, then jabbed the car lighter. “That guy, the Lieutenant Governor, that’s who Dad and the Stepford are out with tonight. He was speaking on the radio last week. What an ass.” She withdrew the lighter and sparked the joint.
Abigail wasn’t sure what to say. For one thing, she didn’t really know why Becky wanted her to listen to it. And second, the Lieutenant Governor didn’t really sound like that much of an ass. Abigail had come from a city that was rotting—thanks in no small part to guys like Billy, who’d started their careers as teens. If the guy on the broadcast was being sincere, if he really thought that nothing was more important than children, then great. Troubles should be dealt with.
She kept quiet, staring out the window as the van plunged down off an exit ramp.
Very suddenly, after only a few stoplights, she saw that they were in the depths of a rough area. Women stood on street corners. Half the buildings were boarded up and covered with spray paint. Windows were smashed. Shadowy figures stared at their passing car. Abigail made sure the door was locked. At least in Glasgow she’d learned to recognize, negotiate, and even grade scariness. For example, the scary-rating for a group of girls at a bus stop at 6 P.M. on a Monday: 0/10. Whereas three staggering males in waterproof tracksuits in the city center on Friday at 2 A.M.: 8/10. Now she found herself avoiding the eyes of a group of hooded teenagers loitering at the entrance to a 7-Eleven, drinking malt liquor. Garbage littered the parking lot. It was around 9 P.M. It was … hell, she couldn’t even remember what day it was. Scary rating? She had no idea, and who knew what qualified as 10/10 in Becky’s eyes?
Eventually, Becky stopped across the road from a large complex surrounded by a high razor fence. She yanked out her phone and thumbed a text message. A few moments later, she revved the engine. “Here they come.”
Before Abigail knew what was happening, a boy in orange coveralls was scrambling over the fence. Another boy, dressed in street clothes—appearing seemingly from nowhere—grabbed the first boy and sprinted across the road. Together, they opened the back door of the van and jumped in. Becky drove off so fast that Abigail’s head banged against the board behind her.
“Hey!” Abigail winced. “What’s going on?”
Becky screeched left and Abigail bumped the left side of her head against the window. “It’s okay. We’re just taking Joe out for the night.”
Abigail scowled, rubbing her temples. “Joe?”
“Stick’s mate.”
“Stick?”
“Stick’s my friend. Joe’s a kid he met one night out. He worked with us for a few months before getting caught. He’s our friend. The boy’s a genius.”
“What are you talking about? Do you mind if I just go back to the house?”
“Can’t. It’s too late now. We won’t be long.”
Eventually, Becky stopped the van behind the huge grim pillars of a freeway overpass. “It’ll be fine. Relax.” She opened the curtain behind the front seat, revealing a small window on the back of the van. “Check it out.”
Abigail knelt on her seat and peered through. The two boys were yanking the blankets aside, revealing buckets of glue, cardboard stencils, spray-paint cans, brushes of all shapes and sizes, and a ladder. Then they were opening the back doors and jumping out. The one in the orange overalls, Joe, must have been about fourteen; the other boy, Stick, a few years older.
“We’re street artists,” Becky said.
ARTISTS, MY ASS, ABIGAIL kept thinking. They were artists in the same way that Billy was an employment broker.
Their roles were clearly defined. Joe was the painter. On edge, with short-cropped hair and an angry scowl permanently plastered on an ashen, zit-marked face, he looked like any number of Glaswegian wannabe thugs. Not exactly “genius” material.
Stick was the minder and the photographer. Just as Billy might have been good-looking if poverty and crime hadn’t throttled him, so too might Stick. Tall and slender, with puppy-dog eyes that were half-covered by a sideways fringe, his gene pool had equipped him with excellent raw materials. But he’d added a Graffiti Tease T-shirt two sizes too small, a pair of jeans two sizes too big, gaudy orange Adidas, and a baseball cap. Presto: handsome was now not-so-handsome.
Abigail stifled a sneer. She didn’t come all this way to end up fancying guys like this. Fancying guys like this. The thought came out of nowhere. She was studying him too hard.
Becky had a role, too. She was the stencil maker and the transport.
And tonight, Abigail, the new girl, was the fittingly lame ladder-holder. A familiar role: she was being used.
She huffed as she grasped the bottom rung, perched at the foot of a large billboard—bare except for the words EXIT ¼ MILE. She’d never understood graffiti, why people would ruin things out of boredom. On the other hand, she knew all too well what bored people were capable of. The ladder wobbled precariously as Becky climbed to the top—stencils, bucket, and paint-roller in hand—and glued the cardboard cutouts to the sign.
When she came down, she said, “Good going, sis. Joe, up you go.”
“Won’t the drivers see us?” Abigail whispered.
“It’s one of the risks, but Stick took care of the lights earlier.”
Abigail glanced at the closest streetlamps. Only now did she notice that all within two hundred meters had been smashed. Despite the anxiety, she held the ladder firmly as Joe climbed up and painted inside the stencils, first with spray and then adding detail with the brushes. After a while, she recognized the creation as the one on the T-shirts she, Becky and Stick wore: five or more silhouettes of young people, all of whom had blank, featureless faces, some white, some black, and they were all dressed the same. They looked like zombies.
He seemed to take forever. Cars zoomed past. Someone beeped a horn.
Every now and then, Stick stopped to show her his photos of the work in progress. He never uttered a word, though she was acutely aware of his arm touching hers as he placed the phone in front of her. Gooseflesh rose as she stared at the images. A distant skyscraper loomed above the sign, silhouetted against a night sky tinted yellow with city lights and smog. She hadn’t even noticed the building before. Backlit, the graffiti bounced from every picture, the zombies eerie and forbidding. Weird. The photos were somehow more powerful than the actual painting.
“Aye, nice,” she finally mumbled. What else was she supposed to say?
The sound of a distant siren floated toward them.
“Quick, quick!” Becky shouted up the ladder to Joe. “Sign it!”
She threw materials in the back of the van as Joe dashed off a single large letter at the bottom: A.
“You got it all?” Becky asked Stick as Joe scrambled down the buckling ladder.
Stick nodded. “Got it. What do you think, Abigail?”
Abigail gritted her teeth, fighting to keep the ladder steady. The siren grew louder. Joe hop
ped over her arms to the pavement, and he and Stick tossed the ladder in the van.
“Get in!” the three of them shouted at her.
For a moment, she couldn’t move. She stood, dumbstruck, at the bottom of the sign. She could not believe the situation she was in: standing at the side of an American highway, with a police car on its way. She had committed a crime. She was screwed. Her father might have pulled strings to get her a visa, but she wasn’t a citizen yet. If she was arrested, there’s no way he’d be able to stop them deporting her, surely. What an idiot she was.
“Come on!” Becky yelled.
Abigail jumped in the front seat of the van and slammed the door. Her fear turned to fury as soon as Becky screeched away, hurtling under the freeway and alongside roads at over 120 km an hour. But Abigail had to hand it to her: Becky was good at this, knew what to do, and where to go. She’d obviously fled the cops before.
The siren faded in the night.
IT WAS NEARLY 4 A.M. when the van lurched to a stop in front of the juvenile detention facility where they’d collected Joe and Stick. All was quiet. Nobody said a word as the back doors of the van flew open. Stick placed the ladder against the razor fence. Joe climbed up and jumped over it. But the moment Stick loaded the ladder back in and shut the doors behind him, an alarm sounded inside the grounds. Abigail stared in mute horror from the side mirror. Four uniformed men ran to Joe. He stood frozen as they tackled him.
“Damn it,” Becky hissed, screeching off. “Shit. Poor kid.”
Poor kid? Abigail almost spoke up. That’s all Becky could muster, after they’d dumped him back in hell? But she bit her tongue. She didn’t want to know how Becky truly felt at this moment. Anyway, the answer might sicken her.
Deviant Page 7
