Love and Vandalism

by Laurie Boyle Crompton

  My phone vibrates violently in my hand while emitting an alarming beeping sound. One look at the screen tells me my electronic device isn’t just having a stroke; Dad is tracking my phone right now.

  He’s had enough of me ignoring his calls. This is the first time he’s resorted to using my phone’s finder to hunt me down this way. It’s an admission of weakness and desperation. In a way, it means I’ve won, but he absolutely cannot find my cabin. So right now, he wins.

  I rush to the door, trying to concoct a story of how I was driving through the woods, cooling off before coming home for the night. I decided to stop for an innocent little hike.

  Sure, it’s the middle of the night, but it’s the only lie I can come up with, and I need to get the hell home and sell it before Dad comes here looking for me.

  I shine the flickering lantern around my tiny cabin as I open the door and shudder at the damning evidence strewn about. One glance would tell my dad exactly what I’ve been up to.

  Who I am.

  And he won’t hesitate to arrest me for vandalism, of that I am certain. The chance to send me away to some reformatory school for delinquent girls would be like a dream come true for him.

  If I stop to hide everything, it’ll just give him more time to track me here, and if I turn my phone off now it will just lock him onto this location.

  All I can do is keep moving and pull the signal along with me and hope he buys my weak excuse.

  My phone sounds off every few minutes as my dad continues tracking my progress home. The beep that sounds over the roar of my car engine makes me flinch each time.

  When I finally pull into the driveway, the silhouette of him standing with his arms crossed is waiting for me in the middle of the front lawn.

  “What were you doing out in those woods?” he demands as soon as I open my car door.

  My anger blocks the lie I planned, and instead I shoot back, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  I try pushing past him, but he grabs my arm and stops me.

  “Ouch!” I’m overreacting to his grip, but this is the roughest he’s ever handled me in my life.

  “Give me a break, Rory. You are not that delicate.”

  Kelly starts barking from inside the house.

  “So, what’re you going to do? Beat the shit out of me here on the front lawn in front of all the neighbors?” I don’t need to see Mrs. Delprete looking out her bedroom window to know she’s watching us. She’s always watching us.

  Dad flings my arm back at me. “You know what? If I thought it would do any good, I’d be tempted to try it. But I just don’t even know how to reach you anymore, Rory.”

  I smirk. “Giving up? So easily?”

  He points a finger in my face. “I will never give up on you. Not ever. Do you understand me? You might think you’ve shut everyone out, but I know who you are, and this person standing in front of me is not the girl I raised.”

  My fury hits like a gunshot. “I’m not your little girl anymore!” The words fire out of me. “Do you have any idea how fucked up I am? How much I’m like her? Or are you just so happy she’s dead you want to forget about Mom forever.”

  Dad looks like he might really hit me. Which would be fantastic. But he just clenches his fist and hisses, “Your mother killed herself as part of some psychotic art installment because she didn’t see any value in reality. Or in being married to me. Or in being a mother to you.”

  “She was an amazing artist!” I’m practically screaming. “You couldn’t stand her success and did everything you could to undermine her talent.”

  “I supported her every step of the way, and you know that. She was depressed, and she refused to go on antidepressants.”

  “She couldn’t create on those drugs. You wanted her to stop being an artist and just be some stupid, boring housewife.”

  “I wanted her to take the medication the doctor prescribed so she wouldn’t try to kill herself.” He grabs my shoulders hard. “I cared more about her than I did about her damn artwork.”

  “She was her art.”

  “I don’t even understand that.”

  “See, and that’s why you could never understand her. You never really knew her and now you don’t know me.” I lean forward and growl at him. “It’s the reason why you and I hate each other.”

  He grips my shoulders. “I have never hated you, Rory.” He lets go and actually tries to hug me.

  I fight him off. “Just stop it, Dad.”

  Kelly is going wild inside the house, and Dad’s eyes slide to the lights that just flipped on in Mrs. Delprete’s upstairs window.

  “Come on, Rory. We’ll go inside and you’ll tell me what you’ve really been up to.”

  “Why?” I step back and yell, “Is screaming on the front lawn not acceptable behavior for a sergeant’s daughter?” I start putting on a big show now, distracting him from asking about where I’ve been.

  He wipes his face with his palm in frustration. “This isn’t you.”

  I egg him on. “You can’t say this isn’t me, Sarge.” I raise my voice even higher. “I decide who I am, not you.”

  The porch light goes on next door, and through clenched teeth, Dad says, “Let’s continue this inside, Rory.”

  “You can’t lock me up in some tower, you know. I’m not the one who’s supposed to be mourning my dead wife. I’m allowed to be young and go out and have fun.” I fling my arms out dramatically. “I’m free to fuck around with whoever I want.”

  Oh shit. Did I really just yell that?

  In the beam from the Delprete’s porch light, I can see that this declaration has finally made Dad’s eye start twitching.

  With a grunt, he spins around and heads for the front door of our house.

  “Everything okay out here?” Mrs. Delprete calls through her screen door.

  All the fight drains out of me at the sound of her voice. She’s used to dramatic scenes playing out on our front lawn—vulgar performance art—but it’s been years since the last show.

  And this is the first time I’ve been cast in the starring role of raving lunatic, instead of my mother.

  I’m turning out exactly like her. The thought sends me following Dad into the house.

  We’re both so angry we slam drawers and doors as we each get ready for bed, and then neither one of us says good night.

  Most nights, my dad’s snores are deafening, but I’m still awake when the first morning birds start singing, and there hasn’t been a sound from his room.

  The next thing I know, sunlight is slicing through my blinds, trying to pry my eyelids open. I must’ve drifted off for the last few hours of darkness.

  Pulling the covers over my head, I roll toward the wall and listen to Dad getting ready for work.

  When my door creaks open, I force my breathing to go slow and deep even though my heart is beating in my ears. I even manage to add a slight nose whistle—that little something extra to prove I’m really sleeping peacefully.

  Dad quietly closes the door, but I keep pretending I’m asleep until I hear his car leave for work.

  Chapter Ten

  Striding through the woods toward my cabin a few hours later, I text Hayes to come and meet me as soon as he can. It’s time to get to work.

  The place is trashed from my late-night interruption from flow. I straighten up quickly and get busy reworking the stencil piece I ruined at the end.

  In broad daylight, it’s harder to push away the sense of impending doom that, even with two people, this project is actually impossible.

  I’d hate to attempt this and fail. A half-finished Sparkle-ad-and-lion mash-up looking over the town as my legacy? No thank you.

  I hear heavy footsteps approaching, and for a moment, I’m afraid my dad has actually traced my location from the original hit he got on my phone last night. I hol
d my breath.

  Two quick knuckle raps make me relax. Dad would’ve barged right in.

  I call, “Come on in, Hayes.”

  The door swings open, and Hayes strides in with a pack on his back and his hair still wet from his morning shower.

  “Good morning,” he says, interrupting my brief daydream of picturing him in his morning shower.

  “Morning. Glad you could make it.” I stand up and the tingles in my legs make me realize I’ve been working so long they’ve begun to fall asleep.

  “Came as fast as I could.” He grins and drops his pack by the door. “Ready for my vandalism lessons.”

  I give him a wry smile. “Welcome to the dark side.”

  “It’s a colorful side, anyway.” His eyes slide over me and land on the spray cans I’ve lined up in order. A job this big requires meticulous organization.

  “Color is the one element you don’t need to worry about,” I say. “That’s my department.” I guide him over to the cabin wall that I’ve prepped with a blue-gray paint, close to the shade of the water tower. “Today’s lesson is all about technique.”

  He raises one eyebrow at me. “I like the sound of that.”

  “No flirting now. Just painting.”

  “I love it when you take charge.”

  I stop and glare at him with my hands on my hips.

  He holds up his palms. “I wasn’t being flirty. Just…okay, teach me everything I need to know.”

  I lean over, aiming my back assets seductively in his direction as I pick up a can of spray paint.

  He blushes. “Hey, come on now.”

  I turn around, slapping the can into his right hand. “Keep your mind out of the gutter, Hayes. You’ve got a lot to learn.”

  He takes the can from me and switches it to his left hand. With a few strong shakes, he makes the bearings clink loudly, considers the blank wall for just a moment, and then looks me in the eye with a knowing smirk.

  My face is a giant question mark because he’s clearly hiding something.

  He turns and rushes the wall with the can of red paint.

  I’m shocked into silence as he works quickly and smoothly. It’s obvious this guy has spray-painted graffiti before.

  In fact, he’s moving like a pro.

  I stand, mutely watching as he fills in the letters he’s thrown up on my wall, a large, 3-D outline that reads HMM with an ellipsis at the end.

  When he’s finished, he tosses the can into the air, allowing it to whirl around before catching it with one hand. I look back and forth from him to his tag and he shrugs. “Just my initials.”

  I shove him so hard he has to step back to keep his balance. “I can’t believe you kept this from me. How long have you been doing graffiti?”

  He laughs and rubs his shoulder where I hit him. “I’m not a real artist like you or anything. I’d just mess around sometimes, go out tagging with my friends in Brooklyn. It’s the other reason why I was so drawn to your lions.”

  I cross my arms and consider his design. “Hmm…” I read. “What’s your full name?”

  “Hayes Michael Mcallaster.” He looks uncomfortable when he asks, “What’s yours?”

  “Rory Capers. No middle name.” I’m still studying his initials. “Do you do any effects?”

  He picks up a can of gray and goes to work. As he paints, he tells me a story about him and his friends getting chased by a gang one night and almost getting caught.

  “We didn’t realize we’d shown disrespect by painting over this one guy’s tag,” he says as he switches spray cans. “Let me tell you, things got real. We thought we were so tough going out, painting our graffiti, but that was the night we realized we were actually just a group of soft rich kids from the suburbs who had no business wandering outside our neighborhood after dark. I never ran so fast in my life.”

  He steps back to show off the letters, which now look like they’ve been cast in cement with cracks running through them. One corner of the letter H looks like it’s crumbling into rubble.

  He’s just brought an urban edge to my little cabin here in the woods. Moving closer, I inspect his work. “This isn’t bad. I can give you a few pointers, but actually, I need to see what angle you used for this.” I point to a section of the rock crumble.

  With a smile, he shows me, and for the next few hours, the two of us take turns working on the big wall, teaching each other spray techniques and effects.

  Hayes is a natural with a spray can, and he picks up new tricks quickly.

  He even shows me how to use a razor blade to create a cap stencil, which is way more of a turn-on than that may sound.

  Each time our hands touch, a current of attraction runs so strong I’m surprised it doesn’t manifest in an actual glowing spark between us.

  For the rest of the morning, we have some serious sitcom-worthy, will-they-or-won’t-they, romantic tension happening between us.

  I prime over our practice area with a layer of white and say, “Go ahead. Forget the initials and the spray techniques. Let me see you paint something original. Anything you’d like.”

  He looks at the blank wall in front of him, tilting his head from side to side, considering. This moment of watching him draws out long, and the anticipation inside me builds. But there is no way I’m ever making the first move with Hayes again.

  On impulse, I grab the closest paint marker, and with a few quick flicks, I draw a purple doodle of a cup of coffee on his bicep. He laughs as I add a goofy face smiling over the rim of the cup. I pick up a can of silver spray paint and quickly complete the piece with a small swirl of steam flowing up his shoulder.

  “Thought you could use a little caffeine boost,” I say.

  “Thanks.” He holds up his arm to consider my work. “It’s perfect.”

  Turning his attention back to the wall, he runs the fingers of his right hand along the surface. Nodding to himself, he begins.

  Keeping the nozzle close to the wall so his lines are ultra thin, he moves the can fast and smooth. His broad strokes begin to connect, forming the image of a detailed cartoon lion wearing a gangster-looking suit. I laugh as he adds a top hat and a red rose in the lion’s lapel. Finally, he gives his lion a spiffy cane and labels his drawing across the top: “A Dandy Lion.”

  “Okay, so that’s adorable. And not bad for your first freestyle lion.” I point to a few drips running down from the red flower in the giant cat’s lapel. “But it looks like someone shot him. You want to be sure to check the pressure anytime you switch cans.”

  Hayes laughs. “Yeah, I should’ve realized the pressure was way too high.”

  I look at him, and his eyes shift to serious for a beat. It’s as if we can read each other’s minds in that instant. Of course he feels this too.

  I break the tension by looking back at the wall. “So, the more we practice, the more precise we’ll be up there on the tower, and the faster we’ll finish.”

  “I want to be ready, Ro, but can we maybe take a little break? We’ve been at this for hours and I could use an actual caffeine hit.”

  I sigh. “Fine. We should eat something too. I have protein bars around here somewhere. Want one?” I move toward the bin that holds my emergency provisions in small, airtight containers. “Most all of them involve some form of peanuts or peanut butter, so I hope you’re not allergic.”

  “That’s okay. I actually brought a little lunch for the both of us.”

  I’ve wrenched the lid off one of the bins, and I’m holding a shoebox container filled with prepackaged bars out toward him.

  He pulls a largish cooler bag from his backpack and pats it invitingly.

  “I’m good with a bar,” I say. “But thanks anyway.”

  Fishing one of the whey protein bars out of my box, I rip the foil wrapper open with my teeth and shove the container back inside t
he plastic bin it came from.

  When I turn around, Hayes is stepping out of the cabin’s door with the cooler bag in his hand and a tablecloth folded under his arm.

  I follow him outside as I bite into my bar. The texture inspires me to check the expiration date printed on the wrapper.

  Hayes glances back at me as he spreads the small tablecloth on a nearby rock and I resist the urge to spit the dry bite of protein bar out onto the ground. Instead, I swallow the crumbly mass and head back inside for my water bottle.

  I stop when Hayes asks, “Can I interest you in a refreshing beverage?”

  “Did you bring water?”

  “I have infused water.”

  I squint at him. “Infused with what? Anything fun?”

  He smiles. “Just cucumber. But I also made you an iced coffee, if you like.”

  I feel my face light up. “Gimme.”

  Perching on a nearby log, I hug my cold tumbler of deliciousness as I watch Hayes unpack baggies filled with sandwiches, pita chips, two apples, and a plastic container of strawberries.

  “You’re really going to eat all that?” I’m suddenly ravenous.

  He gestures to the opposite side of the rock. “I told you, this is for both of us. Come sit.”

  I move closer as he holds out a wrapped sandwich. “Thanks, but I’m a little fussy. I can’t stand mustard or pickles or—”

  “Good ole PB&J.” He smiles as he shakes the sandwich enticingly.

  I take the bait. “My favorite. Thanks.”

  “That does not surprise me.”

  “What kind are you having?”

  He holds it up. “It’s called a Cubano. Roast pork, ham, and Swiss, with extra mustard and pickles all toasted on a panini press.”

  I aim my nose in the air and make a face that makes him laugh.

  We unwrap our sandwiches and bite into them. The bread on mine is whole wheat but the soft kind, which I consider one of the most important features of a proper PB&J. I take a sip from my tumbler.

  I say, “You need to teach me how to make amazing coffee like this before you go back home to Lawng Eyeland.”