Crazy Messy Beautiful

by Carrie Arcos

  Luis appears next to me and makes a disgusting kissing sound in my ear.

  “Someone’s got it for Caaallieee,” he singsongs.

  I give him the finger and walk out of class.

  MY AFFLICTED HOURS

  I’m excited about my plans to go to LACMA this weekend, so with a burst of energy and confidence, I decide to take Ezra’s advice and try again with Autumn. He’s right. I shouldn’t give up so easily. Autumn Cho is a girl worth fighting for. I find her outside the band room with a friend. While I stand behind a nearby tree and run some possible lines of practice conversation with her in my head, a guy with a guitar case walks up and casually drapes his arm over Autumn’s shoulders. She looks up at him and smiles. He keeps his arm on her the whole time they talk.

  It’s a small gesture, but right now it’s too much.

  I turn away from them and lean my head against the tree. Then I push off, scraping my arm, but the pain lands much deeper.

  • • •

  Later, in art class, I head right to my desk, and after a quick nod to Greyson, I put my earbuds in and get right to work on my mural design. I need something to distract me from what I just witnessed at lunch.

  I touch the sore spot on my arm. It’ll be just a faint red line by tomorrow. It won’t even leave a scar.

  I try to shake the gnawing thought that I would’ve killed for Autumn to smile at me like that, and begin sketching. I’m actually really thankful for this mural project. It’s the one thing I feel like I’m in control of. It’s going to be amazing and my first real chance to establish a name for myself as an artist. Plus it’ll be my legacy, a gift to the school that’ll be up for years.

  At the end of class, Greyson comes over.

  “Hey, if you need my help when you’re painting the wall, let me know,” he says.

  “Yeah, sure.” But I don’t think I’ll ask him, even though I know he’d do a great job. I need this to be my own thing.

  “Gotta go to practice. See you later.”

  Greyson leaves and I sit there, waiting for Mr. Fisher. He’s offered to check out some murals with me to help with the inspiration for the school project. I already have an idea of what I’m going to do, but I’m looking forward to seeing some stuff around town. LA is awesome in that it has over fifteen hundred “official” murals, not to mention loads more that are undocumented. There are two whole alleys of them over by the old, cheap movie theater near my house.

  The alley has everything from alien-looking one-eyed creatures, to a gangster king holding court, to some kind of Aztec flying deity, to yellow and green shapes running down a concrete wall and into the asphalt. On the side wall of the theater is a huge Jesus in his typical white robe, with long brown hair and his hands held open in front of him. Around the corner from Jesus, multicolored street art and gang signatures fill a whole side of the building and brick wall. The wall changes periodically, with new art pieces replacing the older ones. The graphic style isn’t really my thing, but I do love the creepy ghost girl with long blue hair, no eyes or nose, and only stitches where her mouth should be.

  It’s cool to be surrounded by so much art. It’s better than looking at old, dirty buildings. And new murals pop up all the time.

  As I’m waiting for Mr. Fisher, Luis enters the classroom. “What up, lover boy,” he says.

  He sits on top of a desk and starts messing around on his phone. What’s he doing here? I ignore him. Seeing Luis once today was more than enough.

  “Oh, good. You’re both here. Do you boys know each other?” Mr. Fisher asks when he emerges from the back room.

  I look at Luis and he says, “Yeah, we know each other.”

  “Great,” Mr. Fisher says. “We’ll stay local. Ready to go?”

  I don’t get it. “Both of us?” I ask.

  “Luis is going to join you on the mural project.” Mr. Fisher begins searching his pockets, rummaging through the drawers in his desk.

  Luis? Boob-drawing, penis-drawing Luis? A heat moves up my neck. I try to keep calm. There’s no way he’s going to touch my mural.

  “Um, Mr. Fisher, can I have a word?”

  “Sure.” He locates his keys and grabs a folder from the top of his desk. “Can we walk and talk?”

  “In private?”

  I don’t wait for him to answer. I head for the back room, where he keeps all the art supplies.

  “Is something wrong?” Mr. Fisher asks.

  “I thought I was the one working on the mural.”

  “You are, and you will still run point on it, but I’ve asked Luis to work on it too.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’ll be good for him, and good for the mural to represent multiple artistic viewpoints. Luis has some real potential.”

  Yeah, the potential to ruin everything.

  “Not from what I’ve seen,” I say.

  Mr. Fisher puts on his brown beanie. “Luis is in my intro class, so I’ve seen some of his work. I think it would be nice for him to partner with you on this. It will be good for him to learn from you and to be a part of something inspiring. Besides, his parents just gave a generous donation to the school, so this will count toward both of your community service hours.”

  It all becomes clear.

  “Can’t he volunteer to do something else?”

  “Neruda, this will be good for both of you.”

  “Mr. Fisher, Luis and I . . .” But I don’t know how to describe my relationship with Luis because I can’t stand him. “We have history,” I say, “and it isn’t a good one.”

  “Well, this’ll be your chance to write a new history, then.”

  “But he’s . . .”

  “Neruda, every great artist eventually needs an apprentice. Think of Luis as yours.”

  “Shouldn’t I get to choose my apprentice?”

  Mr. Fisher sighs. “You’re still heading up the project, Neruda. Luis can’t compete with your ability. I expect that he will mainly assist you, and maybe you can show him a few techniques along the way.”

  I glance at Luis. He’s drawing boobs on the whiteboard.

  “Listen, we’re on a tight deadline now because we need the mural ready for the opening of the new wing in the library, so you might appreciate the extra hand.”

  Doubtful.

  “Look.” Mr. Fisher places his hand on my shoulder. “Think of this as something you’re doing as a favor to me, for the good of the school. And I’ll look for opportunities to give you a solo project or two in the future. Ones that’ll be excellent for your portfolio.”

  I raise my eyebrows, curious about what kind of projects he has in mind.

  “You’re my top student and I wouldn’t be asking you to do this if I didn’t think you could handle it.”

  Praise followed by guilt. A classic teacher and parent move.

  As Papi used to say, “Si quieres el perro, acepta las pulgas.” If you want the dog, accept the fleas. The problem is, I don’t want the dog.

  Mr. Fisher frees my shoulder and pats me on the back. “This will be a good experience, or at least a learning one. Now, let’s go. We have a few stops to make.”

  I don’t even try to hide my dejection when I follow him out. Luis grins at me and falls into step alongside Mr. Fisher.

  This cannot be happening.

  AND HOW LONG?

  Luis rides shotgun in Mr. Fisher’s car. He doesn’t even ask me. He assumes he has earned the spot. I stare out the window in the back, fuming. Mr. Fisher turns on some music, a Latin hip-hop song. At least we don’t have to talk to each other.

  “Ozomatli,” Luis says.

  “Yeah. These guys are the best. I used to see their live shows all the time.”

  “Cool.”

  I’m seething in the back, irritated about their bonding over music. And I’m pissed that Mr. Fish
er is forcing me into this collaboration. Just when I thought life couldn’t suck any more.

  Our first stop isn’t far away—a mural at a small public library. It’s not actually on the wall, but on two large panels that have been mounted to the wall.

  “Is this oil?” I ask.

  “Yep.”

  “You want me to do this?” Luis asks, as if he could actually paint something like it. The panels show these two white kids picking flowers and playing with butterflies and birds. It’s a good painting, but not something I’m interested in doing either.

  “Of course not,” Mr. Fisher says. “I just want the two of you to see what’s out there and what’s possible so you can start brainstorming your own ideas.”

  I’ve already started brainstorming my ideas. Actually, I’ve got the whole mural planned out. I don’t need Luis’s ideas. Or his help.

  “This is not really what we’re looking for in terms of content, because it’s not really a representation of who or what our school is, but it works—it shows kids having fun and it’s perfect for a library. What I’d like you to do at every stop is just take some notes about the piece—the form, the medium, the size, and the message you think it’s trying to convey.”

  Luis and I stare at him.

  “Go ahead.”

  I pull out my sketchbook, and Luis opens up a black spiral notebook. Ha. Amateur. He turns the page and I see a bunch of graffiti lettering. Of course.

  After I make notes on the color palette, the style of the portraits, and the perspective of the piece, and Luis takes notes on whatever, we get back in the car. This time, I take the front seat. If Luis is upset about it, he doesn’t show it, which is even more annoying. I glance at him in the rearview mirror, but he’s looking out the window. This guy is really getting on my nerves.

  Next, Mr. Fisher takes us over to my neighborhood—Highland Park. It’s a mixture of Mexican grocery markets, barbershops, tattoo parlors, dollar stores, art galleries, pizza joints, yoga and CrossFit centers, and swanky cafés and restaurants with vegan options. Mr. Fisher tells us the majority of murals we’re going to look at today are in this part of the city. I wonder if we’ll go by the movie theater.

  “This area has changed so much,” Mr. Fisher says, as if he has to explain it to me. We’ve lived here for years, long before it became one of the cool, hip neighborhoods in Northeast LA, or NELA. I like the way it’s changed; my parents are less on board. The restaurants are better, but everything’s more expensive. It’s definitely an eclectic neighborhood with artists, educators, mechanics, stylists, musicians, old gang members, housecleaners, and Hollywood industry types all swimming alongside one another.

  “I suppose it’s progress,” he continues, “but I miss the days when you could get lunch for under ten dollars and York Street wasn’t a bearded hipster parade. I guess it’s better than a street full of car and muffler repair shops, though. There’s a huge artist community here, which is why I love it. Have you guys ever gone to Second Saturday?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “What is it?” asks Luis.

  “The second Saturday of every month, artists from the area display their work to the public. It’s kind of like the Downtown Art Walk. You guys should check it out.”

  “I’d be down for that,” Luis says.

  It’s bad enough I have to spend after-school hours with Luis. But a weekend? No, thanks.

  Mr. Fisher pulls over and we get out to look at a spray painting called A Couple of Immigrantes in a shady-looking alley. It’s of two old Mexican men wearing white pants and shirts and big tan hats. There’s a tag in the upper right-hand corner that reads MAN ONE—a well-known artist who creates murals all over the world. It’s pretty cool to have some of his right here in LA.

  We walk a bit and Mr. Fisher shows us another work of Man One’s a couple of blocks away, called Capturing Our Identity. It’s a huge face of a child, again done with aerosol but in different blocks of color, with tagging-style letters along the side. It’s large and right in the middle of a neighborhood. That’s the cool thing about murals—they automatically give an environment an artistic identity. And both of these murals are in parts of the city that could use some art against the colorless shades of gray.

  When Luis isn’t watching, I take a picture of him with my phone and text Callie: Guess who I’m with?

  She doesn’t respond right away, so when Luis looks at me, I put the phone in my back pocket.

  “This next one is by a street artist—Codak. Interested to see what you guys think,” Mr. Fisher says.

  We drive to a run-down building with black bars on the windows, and Mr. Fisher parks right in front of the mural. He pulls out his phone and begins reading aloud about the piece.

  “It’s called Ravens Night and Arising Flight. You can see the raven here.” Mr. Fisher points to what looks like the beak of a bird coming out of different kinds of geometric shapes and curves all swirling together.

  Luis stands in front of it for a few moments. Finally he says, “This is awesome.”

  I don’t think it’s all that awesome. Not because I don’t appreciate the artistry; I do. It’s just not me.

  “I thought you’d like the street art style of it, Luis.”

  “For sure.” Luis touches the wall and bends to look closer. I can’t tell if it’s an act or if he’s really interested.

  He and Mr. Fisher talk through the mural while I stand off to the side. It’s a decent mural and fits the wall and the neighborhood well, but if Mr. Fisher thinks I’m going to suddenly turn into a street artist to help Luis hone his own style, he’s wrong.

  “You guys up for one more?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Luis says.

  I nod.

  I grab the backseat and sink down, sulking. I know that I’m kind of being a baby about it, but I don’t care. Luis is a problem I should be facing only in fourth period. He shouldn’t be here, now, sitting in the front seat with the window rolled down, looking out and smiling like a happy puppy.

  • • •

  The last mural is along a low concrete wall in a parking lot. As soon as I see it, my heart perks up. It’s a collection of portraits done in black and white and in all different styles.

  Mr. Fisher reads from his phone again. “This is by a group called Unified Group of Los Angeles Residents, UGLAR for short, and it’s a mural series that’ll stretch across LA when it’s finished.”

  I touch the forehead of a large old man. The detail is amazing, especially the eyes. I let my fingers run across all the faces, each one distinct, from the ethnicity of the person to the drawing technique. Some are cartoonish and street art in style, but there is also more of what I do too. More realism. I love it. It’s perfect. It reinforces my plan for the mural at school and gives me some new ideas.

  “This is your thing, right, Neruda?” Luis asks.

  “I guess.”

  He nods to my book. “I’ve seen your stuff. You could do this.”

  The compliment throws me. “Maybe.”

  “Does this inspire some ideas?” Mr. Fisher asks.

  “Yeah, definitely,” I say.

  “Luis, why don’t you show Neruda some of your sketches.”

  Luis actually looks shy when he hands me his book. He shoves his hands in his pockets and studies the wall while I flip through it. They’re what I expected. Immature, juvenile, crude lettering, simplistic. Any kid who is trying to copy your basic tagging lettering could do what he’s done. I’m about to toss the book back to him when one page catches my attention. It’s of a girl with laser beams coming out of her eyes. A lizard is crawling out of her open mouth. Her hands are outstretched and on fire.

  “You did this?” I ask him, pointing to the page.

  Luis nods.

  I stare at the girl before shutting the book. I’m surprised.

 
We head back to school, Mr. Fisher and Luis chatting about who knows what. I’m lost in thought as ideas for the mural start swirling in my head and trickle down to my hand. I don’t stop sketching until Mr. Fisher drops us off by the front entrance.

  “Maybe we can talk tomorrow about the direction,” he says. “Or better yet, why don’t you and Luis talk first and then pitch your idea to me. I have no doubt you’ll come up with something artistic and meaningful that the school will love.”

  Mr. Fisher pulls away and raises his hand in a wave.

  “I guess we could meet at my house if you want. Maybe tomorrow after school?” I offer this only so I won’t disappoint Mr. Fisher.

  “Whatever you say, boss. You’re in charge.”

  If I were really in charge, there’s no way I’d be standing here discussing an artistic partnership with Luis.

  As soon as Mr. Fisher’s car is out of sight, we scatter in opposite directions like two opposing forces.

  GENTLEMAN ALONE

  Callie calls just as I enter the house.

  “Hello?”

  “Tell me about Luis!”

  I explain my predicament: how I’m now being forced into a mural collaboration with him.

  “Are you serious?” she asks.

  “Completely.”

  “Hilarious.”

  “I’m glad you find humor in my pain.”

  “It’s just . . . No, you’re right, it’s bad. You should just treat it like a social experiment.”

  I get the feeling that she can’t stand Luis any more than I can, which makes me happy and also curious.

  “How come you don’t like him?” I ask.

  “He’s just so . . . base, you know. Like, so on the surface. You know exactly what a guy like Luis is after. I mean, he’s cute in that sort of Latino-rebel way. But he’s trouble for sure.”

  I feel a pang of something when she mentions how cute he is. There is nothing redeemable about Luis. But I note too that she seems to like Latinos.

  “Can he even draw?” she asks.