Book Read Free

Love and Vandalism

Page 8

by Laurie Boyle Crompton

He looks around the small cabin for the first time. “What is this place, anyway? Your painting studio?”

  I move to a corner and pull a tarp over a crowd of spray paint cans dripping with assorted colors. My adrenaline is all jammed up from the implied promise of physical release, and it’s making me cranky. I want Hayes to go now.

  “Wait a minute.” His eyes grow wide and he looks around with fresh wonder. “This is your lair, isn’t it? This is where you plan all your new graffiti hits?”

  Drat. Before I can stop him, he’s reached down and picked up a giant cardboard piece of stencil. It’s a portion of the left haunch of my larger-than-life water tower lion.

  “What is this thing for?” His eyes snap to mine with understanding.

  I look away. “It’s just a little something I’ve been working on.”

  He picks up another section, and I can see him trying to piece together just how big the finished lion will be. “Where the hell is this thing going?” His brow creases. “Are you planning on spray-painting the side of the moon?”

  I shrug.

  “Rory?”

  “Just the water tower. I want to cover up that awful Sparkle Soda ad. This lion is a way to reclaim our public space.”

  “Wha—? Okay. So that’s ambitious. Clearly, this is a cry for attention.”

  “It’s not about getting attention. I’m not planning on getting caught, so nobody will ever even know it’s me.”

  “Well, then, who the hell is helping you?”

  “Well, that’s sort of the thing…”

  He drops the stencil he’s holding and it floats smoothly to the ground.

  “So, you, what? Brought me here to seduce me into being your accomplice?”

  “No. That’s not it at all.” My mind races. “It’s insulting that you’d even think that.” And why didn’t I think of that?

  “So then who’s helping you? You said I’m the only one who even knows you’re the artist.”

  “I haven’t worked out every little detail, but I’m sure things will come together.” I move over to the pile of stencils on the floor and begin straightening up the stack.

  Hayes puts his hands on his hips as he watches me. “You are aware that spray-painting is a crime, right?”

  “Don’t worry about it. This doesn’t involve you.”

  “What would make you even attempt something this crazy?”

  I won’t look at him. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  With a sigh, he leans down and helps me straighten up the rest of the stencils.

  After we’ve finished, we find ourselves sitting on the floor, facing each other.

  My emotions are a soupy mixture of wanting to kiss him again and wanting him to leave so I can be alone.

  He’s watching me so closely I feel heat working its way up my neck. I am not the type to overheat. It’s as if he’s even controlling my temperature gauge.

  I break eye contact, pretending to study my paint supplies.

  “I don’t like ignoring my sponsor’s advice, you know,” Hayes finally says. “Roger has some solid wisdom, and he’s helped me in a lot of areas. Without even asking him, I’m positive he would be against me helping you.”

  “I told you to forget it. And you should probably forget all about this cabin and me too.” I stand up. “Let’s both do the right thing here.”

  Hayes smirks and shakes his head. “How is it that you make doing the right thing sound so damn horrible?”

  I give a small smile as I reach down and pull him to his feet.

  We stand looking at each other and I wonder if he’s feeling an ounce of the physical pull that I feel right now.

  Finally, he says, “You really are trouble, aren’t you?”

  This statement would normally make me laugh and possibly give the guy a tackle hug, but Hayes isn’t just any guy.

  “Don’t worry.” I lean forward. “I’m only trouble if you cross me.”

  He takes a step closer. “And I’m only trouble when I’m drinking or getting high. But then I’m really big trouble.”

  “I suppose the lines are drawn, then. I’m not looking to get you drunk, and you can be my own private secret keeper.”

  “Go get a diary to keep your secrets.” He smiles. “What you need is a partner in crime.”

  I stare at him. “Are you really considering maybe helping me? I promise you I’ll take the fall if anything goes down.”

  His eyes sweep around the cabin and land back on me. With a glance up and down my height, Hayes roughs up the front of his hair. He’s given up on it staying slicked back.

  “I’m going to need to think about it,” he says. “Can I finally get your cell number?”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Won’t that take all the fun out of stalking me?”

  He gives me a face that says, Come on, and I relent. Grabbing a Sharpie from a messy pile of supplies on the floor, I gesture for him to give me his hand.

  Thrusting out his upturned fist, he squeezes it so tightly all his arm muscles are flexed. I pull his wrist toward me and write my number along his forearm, ending with a quick sketch of a lion that makes him smile.

  “I could’ve just put you in my phone.”

  “I’d rather be on your arm.” I try to keep the flirtatious lilt out of my voice, but it’s there.

  He gives a ragged sigh. “I’d better go call my sponsor.” He grabs his bag and pauses in front of me. With a deep breath, he leans down and gives me the briefest kiss at the very outermost corner of my lips.

  Before I can even decide whether or not to turn my head and kiss him back, he tells me bye, and he’s out the door.

  I stand nailed to the spot where he left me and absently touch my fingertips to my raw lips as I ask myself, What the hell just happened?

  Chapter Six

  By the time I get home, Dad has dinner from Taco Shack spread out on the table. I thank him and gather up the white wax paper holding my burrito to carry it up to my room.

  Dad puts a hand on my shoulder, stopping me. “Come on, Ror. I never see you anymore.”

  “You sure you don’t want me to pee in a cup first?” I widen my eyes and lean in close. “Want to check my pupils?”

  He looks away, and I almost feel bad. Then I remember him being a damn cheater and want to hurt him even more.

  He says, “I got you your favorite: a Chili Davis Burrito.”

  “I can enjoy it just fine up in my room.”

  His expression hardens. “Kelly?” he calls to the dog, who is, of course, parked right at his feet. She looks up at him, tail wagging. He asks her, “Would you like Rory’s burrito for your dinner?”

  “Come on, man.” The burritos smell delicious. “You wouldn’t really do that.”

  “Try me,” Dad says. “That dog’s ass can blow spicy gas into next week for all I care.”

  With a growl, I pull out my chair, fall into it, and bow my head slightly as Dad blesses the food.

  Trying to ignore Dad’s disgusting mention of dog farts, I attack my enormous Chili Davis. It’s a perfect blend of cheese and meat and beans and fiery goodness, and a small groan escapes as I chew because the thing is just that good.

  Of course, giving in to eating with Dad has a cost. Pretending to be nonchalant about it, he starts to interrogate me about my summer.

  “Overcast today,” he says. “Many people up at the lake?”

  “Some.” I shrug.

  “You’ve been putting in some serious hours lately. How do you like it?”

  “Okay.” I hide any trace of enthusiasm.

  His seemingly benign questions continue, and I answer with growing hostility that gets hotter and hotter until I finally snap, “Want to know what shade of brown my shit was this morning too, Dad? How about the scent of my farts.” I half stand and wave my hand behin
d me as if offering him a waft from my butt.

  I sit back down hard, and his ears turn red, but he finally quits talking to me. We both chew our food in silence.

  It is completely his fault that we hate each other. He wasn’t quite this awful before things went bad with Mom and he turned into a total dick.

  He claims that he had to ban me from making art because I need to learn that relationships are more important, but he has no idea how to even have a relationship with me.

  I know he’s capable of being a decent father because he used to be. But that was before he stopped trusting me. And long before that day he busted me carrying pot, the kill shot on our relationship.

  The fact that he turned our family pet into my snitch was only one of the many messed-up things about the whole incident.

  I’d come home and flung my backpack on the stairs as I grabbed a snack from the kitchen. I was only gone a moment. When I crossed back through the living room, Dad was blocking my way to the steps.

  “I have a few questions, young lady,” he said, holding up the condemning sandwich baggie filled with herb.

  Kelly, the traitor, stood beside him as if she had a few questions of her own.

  I’ll admit, my response of, “It’s just a little weed, Dad,” was a pretty poor opener, but it was only a dime bag I was holding for a friend, and I wasn’t expecting him to treat me like I was some sort of depraved drug addict who’d just come in off the street.

  Of course, he refused to believe the weed wasn’t mine. Cops always want to think the worst about a person, even when that person is their own daughter.

  That weekend, he actually made me sit through some stupid Scared Straight program at the nearby Ossining prison. It’s basically this thing where a bunch of inmates take turns yelling at bad kids in an attempt to freak us out and turn us into good kids.

  The inmates with their spittle-filled screams had some compelling arguments for staying out of jail.

  Of course, instead of finding myself scared straight, I made friends with a cute stoner from High Falls who’s about five inches shorter than me who got busted dealing chronic.

  The two of us couldn’t stop laughing the whole time and we hooked up after our big “release from prison.”

  I’m sure word got back to my dad that I didn’t take the exercise all that seriously.

  After that, it was clear that he saw me as a completely different person—like I wasn’t even related to him.

  Finally, he resorted to banning me from my artwork and tried to put me into some dumb therapy group for teens who are unhappy. It was total bullshit.

  Dad will never understand art, and I only pretended to go to his stupid group until he finally caught on that I was ditching and gave up.

  If anyone in this household needs therapy, it’s him. I still can’t believe he’s been having a freaking affair.

  And now I’ve lost my appetite.

  Wrapping the paper around what’s left of my burrito, I stand. “Gotta go.” I head for the kitchen with my leftovers.

  “Rory, wait, please. Can we talk?”

  “Sorry, Dad. I have to cover a closing shift at Danny’s tonight.”

  I walk out of the room and into the kitchen. I’m putting my rewrapped burrito in the fridge when I hear what is most likely his fist pounding hard against the dining room table.

  I glance over to the counter, thinking of Mom. I can’t help but smile at his rage.

  Got ’em, I think, and head upstairs to put on a pair of jean shorts and get the hell away from this house.

  • • •

  Okay, so, I’m not technically on the schedule to work at the art store tonight, but I enjoy Kat’s company way more than my dad’s.

  After I get dressed, I head straight over to Danny’s since I wouldn’t put it past my dad to check up on me. I doubt he’d push things by showing up here at work after our disastrous dinner, but it’s probably best I stick close to where I’m supposed to be.

  As usual, once I’m hanging around Danny’s, I can’t help but pitch in anyway. I genuinely love this art store.

  Tonight, I’m using Sharpie pens to make a colorful sign that calls attention to our vast selection of Sharpie pens.

  Kat is leaning against the counter, watching me. “You do know that Ken will take credit for this, right?” Ken is the store manager, and he loves to let the owner think every new display idea came out of his prematurely balding head.

  “I don’t mind.” I tilt back to inspect my handwriting on the bright sign. Grabbing a fresh marker, I start adding thick shadows to my letters.

  “Well, obviously you don’t mind. Heck, you’re not even getting paid to be here right now, but it really grates my cheese. If it wasn’t for you and me, this place would have absolutely zero character.”

  “So, Ken gets to be the manager. Who needs that level of responsibility?”

  Kat spikes up her short, red hair with her fingers. Tonight, her lipstick matches the shade perfectly. “Did you know he and I got hired the same week? We trained together.”

  “You’ve mentioned.”

  “It’s just so annoying that my clear lack of a nut sack is what cost me that promotion.”

  I turn and look at her. “You’ve got lady balls to spare, my friend. Ken just knows how to schmooze with the customers better.”

  To emphasize my point, I nod toward the two young women who have been studying the knitting section for the past ten minutes.

  Kat rolls her eyes. “I know, I know.” She grudgingly moves out from behind the counter and makes her way over to the yarn girls.

  My phone buzzes just as I hear Kat give an artificially cheerful greeting and ask if she can help them find anything. I smile while I check my phone.

  When I read the text, my smile drops and my blood pressure soars. It’s from Hayes.

  I have a proposition for you.

  I stand, staring at the phone for a moment. I’ve experienced my share of booty calls from boys. Usually, I know just how to respond based on an intuitive algorithm that factors in my opinion of the guy who sent it multiplied by my handful of daddy issues and divided by how lonely I’m feeling at that moment.

  But I don’t know how to respond to this.

  And right now, I hate the way my heart is drumming to a rhythm I’ve never heard before.

  “Hey, Kat,” I call. The knitters are talking to her animatedly, but she abandons them to see what just made my voice go all weird.

  Leaning over my shoulder, she reads the text. “Who’s it from?”

  “That guy, Hayes, who was in the other day.” She looks at me blankly. “The guy with the wet hair who you said was everyone-with-a-pulse’s type.”

  “Ah, yes, Mr. Hotness. I thought you weren’t interested.”

  “Yeah, well, he can be quite convincing.”

  “So you’ve been seeing him?”

  “I have seen him. That’s all I’m willing to say.”

  Kat looks at me. “Yeah. The look on your face right now says all it needs to. What’s the problem?”

  “Things have gotten…weird and complex. He might be more intense than I can handle.”

  “Intense can be good.” She arches a pierced eyebrow.

  “I’m freaking out over a simple text from the guy right now,” I say. “This is not good.”

  “Okay, okay. Just ask yourself: Is a proposition from this guy something you feel interested in?”

  I roll my eyes. “You met him. Of course I’m interested in messing around. But I’m not interested in a relationship and he seems to think that’s, I don’t know…part of it.”

  “So, he wants a relationship and you don’t?”

  “Actually, he’s not looking for a relationship either. At least not until he does some sort of AA homework. Like I said, it’s weird and complex.”<
br />
  “Maybe he just wants to hook up.”

  I smile. “Yes. Maybe it’s just a hookup.” I type back: What sort of proposition?

  He writes back right away: Two words. Ice. Caves.

  Kat reads his text out loud and says, “Nice and kinky, but not very convenient. Does he know the ice caves are open to the general public? There could be children present.”

  I shake my head. “He doesn’t want sex. He wants me to take him on an actual tour of the ice caves.”

  “Oh. Are you sure? I mean, this exchange could be interpreted in several ways.”

  “No, I’m sure.” I wonder if he’s agreeing to help me with my project and this is the cost, or if he’s simply continuing to blackmail me as his own personal tour guide for the whole Hudson Valley area.

  I type: What are you offering in return? I hope his response isn’t something like “secret keeping,” but he quickly writes back.

  All that lies beyond the wardrobe.

  Of course it’s a nerdy Narnia reference. Kat wrinkles her nose and says, “Beyond the wardrobe? Is this him promising to take you clothes shopping, or is he saying he wants you naked?”

  “I don’t know. It’s weird and com—”

  “Yeah, yeah. It’s complex. I get it.” She heads back to sort out the yarn girls who are now pawing through a rainbow of wool. Over her shoulder, Kat calls to me, “Just be careful the two of you don’t get caught.” She turns and walks backward a few steps so she can admonish, “And try not to melt all that ice.”

  I laugh as I text Hayes, letting him know I’m free to take him to the caves tomorrow. It seems like putting ourselves on ice is the best thing the two of us can do right now.

  • • •

  Mom is giving me a pep talk about the importance of staying dedicated to my art no matter what, and she has me feeling like a total slacker. While listening to her, I’m sitting at the kitchen counter, doodling lions in my sketchbook.

  “You need to trust the little voice inside your head that tells you that you can do better, that prodding to try harder. It’s the harsh, cruel taunting that will push you to make great art, not that gentle whisper that looks at your work and says, ‘Hey, that’s pretty good.’”

 

‹ Prev